


Seven and Threes

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, M/M, Sibling Incest, Suicide, Teen Lucifer, Teen Michael, Unrequited Love, Young Lucifer, Young Michael, non-smutty incest, not really but kinda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-15 16:50:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7230703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael loves his little brother.</p><p>He's loved him since they were young. Seven, ten, thirteen, sixteen, nineteen, twenty-two, twenty-five, and forever. He's loved him in Rome, through blasphemy, through Latin and Greek and fights and when he kicks him out the house on their father's orders. Through uncertainty, through arrests, because he's his brother.</p><p>Seven different ages, seven different parts of Michael's life. Michael loves him in each part, each moment. Because he's his brother.</p><p>Lucifer loves him, too. Because Michael is Michael and he is Lucifer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One- Seven

“I hate the new baby.”

As he says the words he can feel a small shiver up his spine, guilt dripping from his mouth like honey. It’s wrong, he shouldn’t hate anything. Hate (as their mother told them when Lucifer came home with a cut on his chin from being pushed over) meant you wanted them to die the most painful death. Michael’s mouth had fallen open when he heard that, his hand coming up to touch the crucifix around his neck. He knew what the most painful death was- and surely wishing that on anyone was bad enough to go to Hell.

Uncle Joshua had patted his head reassuringly after Michael had ran to him, nearly in tears. He just laughed a little and said he wouldn’t go to Hell for hating someone who had hurt his brother. He’d called him ‘Catholic guilt incarnate,’ too. Michael hadn’t known what that had meant, so he had looked at him blankly before going to get Lucifer’s blanket, which always seemed to calm him down.

“You can’t hate a baby,” Lucifer told him.

“Well, I do,” Michael said, and sat down beside him, leaning against the stone wall of the back of the chapel. He rested his head against the wall, looking up at the stained glass windows above him. One was of the Virgin Mary, the one in the middle Jesus at the Last Supper, with Saint Stephen on his left, holding three stones and a palm leaf. His mother had explained why one day, when she was still pregnant with Gabriel. Her blonde hair had tickled his face and he had shifted in her lap, his Sunday suit far too hot on the summer’s day. The explanation hadn't made much sense, so he had tuned out- but her perfume smelt nice and her arms wrapped around him felt pleasantly cool, so he had stayed on her lap, looking up at the window while she had spoken.

There was lots to look at in the chapel, like statues and windows and crosses and hymn books, which he was grateful for. Mass seemed a lot more boring now that he was made to sit on one side of their parents and Lucifer on the other since they had been caught scratching their initials into the pews with their nails. Raphael sat wedged between the two parents, head leaned against their mother’s arm as he listened and pretended he wasn’t as bored as Michael was.

Lucifer seemed okay with it, head constantly bowed during the mass as he read the Bible, which he had been told wasn’t a particularly Catholic thing to do. Lucifer didn’t seem to care. He read it anyway. He'd tell Michael the weirdest parts later, cross-legged on his floor while Michael sat opposite him, an open and forgotten book in his lap, both still in their Sunday suits as they waited for the roast dinner.

Michael had to find other things to do during mass. He knew, therefore, that there were twenty-four empty crosses in the chapel, fourteen Stations of the Cross, twelve apostles at the Last Supper, seven angels around the chapel, three crucifixes, and one baptismal font. He had been baptised there, and then Lucifer a little more than a year later, Raphael two years after that- and now Gabriel.

“You can’t hate a baby,” Lucifer repeated, drawing his knees to his chest. He didn’t sound like their father would, if he had been the one speaking. Lucifer said it in a factual way. Michael stared at him.

“Why?”

“They haven’t done anything bad yet.” Lucifer put down the flower he had been playing with, staring back. Uncle Joshua wouldn't like that, Michael thought- the flowers, not the staring. Joshua knew enough about gardening (and about Lucifer) to recognise when a flower had been picked and torn at by Lucifer instead of simply falling. Lucifer seemed to know what Michael was thinking, as he quickly pocketed it, hiding the evidence.

With his small distraction gone, Michael had to ponder an answer to that.

“He broke my communion cross,” he said after a pause, taking it out his pocket. The fine gold chain was indeed snapped. He had made a knot in it so the crucifix didn’t fall off. “He just pulled on it when I was hugging him and wouldn’t let go.” Looking down at it, he felt a sudden sadness. His mom had given it to him for his communion. He'd even worn it in the bath, because she'd said it was a special metal that wouldn't go ugly in the water.

Lucifer frowned, taking it from him to examine. Once he seemed satisfied, he handed it back.

"That wasn't nice."

“No, it wasn't,” Michael agreed. “Dad said he’d get it fixed for me, though.” He wasn't sure whether he'd forgotten about that promise now, even though it had only been made a week ago. He carried it around with him at all times now, ready to hand it over to him at a moment's notice.

Michael tried to think of other bad things Gabriel had already done.

“He cries a lot,” he said after a while. “Mom said she’s not sleeping as well.”

“I’m not sleeping well, either,” Lucifer said, and it was true. More nights than not, Lucifer would come padding down the corridor to Michael’s room, and climb into bed with him silently. Michael had protested weakly at first, as Lucifer opened the window when he came in, claiming he couldn't sleep when it was too hot. It was quiet in his room, and Gabriel’s room was right next to Lucifer’s, so he understood. Sometimes he wanted to stay up and talk when Michael wanted to sleep, and the blanket he took everywhere with him stank- but mostly he just sucked on his thumb and curled up to Michael silently. He had only been caught once. Their dad hadn’t been too happy, but Lucifer just carried on. Michael was always too tired to protest by the time Lucifer came to join him, anyway.

They were quiet for a while. The chapel was on the edge of their grounds, just across the road from the border of it, and he could hear the baptism party from here- the whirr of the bouncy castle, the delighted screams of Raphael, a loud clatter that sounded like a plate smashing. He had came here for a reason- get away from the noise. He hadn’t been able to find Lucifer anywhere, and his mom had said the cake wasn't being brought out until later, so he went looking for him. Michael wondered whether he should tell their father that Lucifer had crossed the road without holding anyone’s hand- but that would mean telling him that he had, too.

“What you going as for Halloween?” Lucifer asked after a while.

“Not saying,” Michael said shortly. “You’ll just copy.”

“Will not!” Lucifer said, lifting his head to frown at Michael. Michael tried to pull him back, his neck feeling cold without his head there. Lucifer shook his head, frowning at him and sticking out his bottom lip. “I’m going as a vampire, anyway. Tell me, Mickey, please!”

“Fine,” Michael said, and Lucifer finally settled back into him. “Dad wants me to go as an angel.”

There was a pause, and then Lucifer started laughing. “You can’t go as an angel, Mickey!” he said through his giggling. “Angels aren’t scary!”

“I don’t want to be scary,” Michael said simply in response, feeling hurt.“I want to be an angel.”

But Lucifer was shaking his head at him still.

“Mickey,” he said seriously. “Halloween is about being scary. Angels aren’t scary.”

“They are too,” Michael protested weakly.

“No,” Lucifer said, and it was enough to convince Michael. “Be a vampire with me instead.”

Michael shook his head this time. “Dad said-”

“Come on, Mickey,” Lucifer said, pulling away again, and Michael let him this time. “Dad says lots of stuff. But it’s Halloween, and you gotta be scary.” He  
frowned, his little face looking serious. “Okay?”

“But-”

“No one’s going to give sweets to an angel,” Lucifer said, butting his head against Michael’s chest. “They get sweets in Heaven all the time, everyone knows that. But Halloween’s the one night when vampires can get them, too. You’ll get way more sweets, I promise.”

Michael stuck out his bottom lip. “But I want to be an angel,” he said, and Lucifer sighed.

“You can be an angel next year,” he said, and god, he sounded like their mother; that was her dismissive tone- the one she never used on them, but on other people, and it usually made them do what she wanted. “Being a vampire will be so much cooler. You can wear fangs and a cape and mom’s even got fake blood, too.”

That did sound cooler than the halo and fluffy wings he had planned.

“Okay,” Michael said, and quickly added, “You’re still being a vampire, right? You’re not going to change your mind and be an angel instead, are you?”

“Obviously not,” Lucifer said, still in that grown-up voice. “Why would I want to be an angel? I’m being a vampire, and you are too.”

Michael sighed, but nodded. “Fine,” he said, and pushed him off. Lucifer made a small noise of protest, about to clamber back on, but Michael stood up. Lucifer looked up at him sullenly.

“I don’t want to go back,” he said, ignoring the hand Michael held out to help him up. “Raphael’s friends are too loud and dad’s friends are too boring.”

“They’ll have the cake out by now,” Michael said, and Lucifer quickly took the hand, standing with Michael’s help.

“Wait,” he said as they began to walk away. He started brushing at Michael’s hair, and small stones littered down onto the grass. Michael waited patiently until he was done, and was about to start walking again until thin arms looped around his neck and Lucifer gave a small grunt as he jumped up, crossing his legs across Michael’s stomach.

“Geroff,” Michael snapped, and then began gasping for air as Lucifer just held on tighter. “Luci- my neck- you’re gonna- hold my shoulders instead!”

Lucifer did, and quickly, his small hands digging into his shoulders now.

“Go!” he commanded, and Michael obediently began walking back towards the party, hoping their absence hadn’t been noticed. He stopped when they got to the road, though there were no cars in sight.

“Why’ve you stopped?”

“We’re not supposed to cross by ourselves,” Michael said, although he did it before. “We’re supposed to hold hands.”

He heard Lucifer sigh, and wondered how eager he was for the cake. “We’re not by ourselves, obviously,” he said, and lifted one of his hands to tug at Michael’s arm. It felt a little unsafe, crossing a road without an adult and with Lucifer holding on with just one hand, so Michael let him down gently. He took his hand, holding tightly, and they crossed the road together.


	2. Chapter Two- Ten

It was Rome and he was ten years old. Lucifer was nine, a bouncing ball of endless energy beside him.

It was Rome, and he had been disappointed to hear that it wasn’t Athens, because he learned Ancient Greek and Lucifer learned Latin, and it seemed unfair when they were first told, because Michael had wanted to learn Latin in the first place. He knew that they didn’t speak Ancient Greek in Athens, and they didn’t speak Latin in Rome, but still. 

It was Rome, and he had been unwilling to go, but it was heaven. It became heaven when they were sat next to each other on the plane, just the two of them. Because their father was their father, too good at his business for either of them to comprehend yet, they were flying first-class. Michael wouldn’t have cared if they weren’t. Lucifer unbuckled the plane belt the moment it was allowed and brought his legs up beneath him, facing him. He took one breath and he was off, telling him about Ancient Rome; the Roman gods, the empire, the Colosseum, the gladiators, the Caesars, the art, and Michael drank every word with wide eyes.

It seemed impossible that the empire Lucifer described could fall the way it had. Something so... real, and present, Michael thought, shouldn't be able to just fall the way it had, the leaders fighting for control, the economy collapsing, others invading. Something like Rome should have foreseen it and found a way to survive. It shouldn't have been able to fall.

But it had, and Michael supposed nothing was free from the risk of falling that way.

He had asked Lucifer how something like Rome had fallen, and Lucifer had explained it, how it had been more than one factor. Michael had pretended to understand.

“How do you know all this?” he asked him, and Lucifer had paused mid-sentence, frowning.

“Latin,” he said simply. “Didn’t your teacher give you books on Greece?” 

She had. Michael had piled them on his desk, unread. He had no interest in dead men unless it was Lucifer talking. They had the same tutor, obviously, and she spent an hour with them both twice a week, dedicated to the language she taught them. Their father had hired her a year ago, the year after their mother died. She was strict and frowny and had decided that Michael should learn Ancient Greek and Lucifer Latin the moment she laid eyes on them both, hands curled in each other’s, which made their father’s mouth mash into a thin line. 

In his third lesson, he had asked to learn Latin with Lucifer instead. The two brothers both wanted to do well, and studied together on Michael’s bedroom floor. Michael had been mildly outraged when he saw Latin letters were the same as English ones, and Lucifer had been eager to help him prepare what to say to get them both doing Latin together.

“Latin?” she had repeated, looking blankly at him, as though she had never heard of it and as though she wasn’t teaching Lucifer Latin in an hour’s time. “Why would you want to learn Latin, Michael? Greek is better. Ancient Rome was a copy of Ancient Greece; you’re learning the original history, the original language.”

That hadn’t made him feel any better, though, as he watched Lucifer pour over books and chant Latin verbs while Michael was still struggling with the alphabet.

It was the same problem with their music lessons. Their teacher for that was another woman, old and grey-haired, like their language tutor. Michael and Lucifer were presented to her, too, side-by-side, hands touching but not holding, because their father had told them they were too old for that now. She had decided Michael should learn the violin and Lucifer should learn the piano without hesitation. Within a few days, Lucifer could play a simple tune while Michael was still struggling with holding the bow. Lucifer’s talks of abandoning the sticky white residue the rosin left on his fingers and trading it for four-handed duets persuaded him to take up the issue of changing his instrument with the formidable woman.

“The piano?” she had repeated, looking blankly at him, as though she had never heard of it and as though she wasn’t teaching Lucifer the piano in an hour’s time. “Why would you want to learn the piano, Michael? The piano accompanies the violin, Michael. There are only a few pianists that get accompanied by the violin. You’re learning the better instrument, I promise you.”

It had sounded like a lie, both times, but he carried on with Ancient Greek and the violin.

Rome was a dream. Raphael was seven and Gabriel was three, and their father had hired two glorified babysitters to come with them for the fortnight they were there while he went to meetings and dinners in fancy restaurants with other business people. He had booked five rooms in the hotel room- one for himself, one each for the babysitters, one for Raphael and Gabriel, and one for Michael and Lucifer. They had spent the first night jumping on their queen-sized beds in their pyjamas, laughing until one of the staff came and said there had been complaints of too much noise. 

Rome was a dream. Raphael and Gabriel spent most of the time in the hotel pool. Michael and Lucifer were let out with their babysitter to go wherever they wanted. He was content to stay in a café for most of the day while Michael and Lucifer went around alone, neither of them paying any mind to the fact they were young and in a foreign country. They ignored the fact it screamed danger in some senses, because it screamed adventure in so many others. 

It was hot enough that they had to wear sun cream and T-shirts. They discovered that ice-cream here was different than at home- creamier, sweeter, and different flavours. They sat watching the Trevi Fountain, a large Nutella ice-cream dripping down their hands. They had to go back to the café they left the babysitter in in forty minutes so he could take them to lunch. Lucifer made a sudden noise of pain, which attracted the attention of the people around him, and he thrust his ice-cream into Michael’s hand before tugging at the silver chain around his neck. Michael watched him in confusion as he undid the chain hurriedly, taking it off. It had been a gift for his communion from their mother. She had died a month later, and Lucifer wore it constantly. They joked sometimes that Raphael’s would be bronze, and Gabriel’s iron, but Raphael had made his communion two months ago, and he had no such present yet. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked his brother, watching as he stuffed the chain into his short pockets, taking the ice cream back.

“The chain,” Lucifer said, touching his neck with his free hand. He showed Michael a thin red line on it. “It burned- must have got too hot.” His small mouth was in a grimace that made his young face look far too old, and Michael knew he was thinking of the friend of their dad’s that had muttered about Lucifer being the devil incarnate. It had seemed fair enough at the time- Lucifer had used the man’s shoes to show a wide-eyed Gabriel that slugs didn’t mind places that smelled of feet- but it had stunned Lucifer into silence, a hurt look on his face. Michael had found his shabby book of prank ideas shoved in the bin two days later. He kept it under his bed now, waiting for when his little brother began regretting throwing it out. It smelt a bit like soup and damp coffee, but Michael didn’t care too much.

Not knowing what to say, he chewed on his lip thoughtfully, ice cream forgotten for the moment. He stared at the pocket the chain was in. Lucifer stared at the fountain.

“I should have got a new chain here,” Michael said eventually. Lucifer raised an eyebrow, still not looking at him.

“Where?” 

“Here.” He gestured with his hand. “Rome. Maybe yesterday. I should have got a new one.”

“Yesterday?” Lucifer repeated blankly. “Why yesterday?”

Michael stared at him, wondering if he was being serious or not. Lucifer looked back at him after too many seconds passing in silence, and from his confused expression, he was being completely serious. 

“Yesterday,” Michael said. “We went to the Vatican, Luce. The Vatican.”

Lucifer’s face didn’t clear in realisation. His eyebrows furrowed slightly instead.

“The place with the paintings on the ceiling and stuff?” he asked uncertainly. “The- the Sister Chapel?”

“Sistine,” Michael corrected patiently. “Yes, there. We saw the gift shop, remember?”

Lucifer’s nose wrinkled in disgust. Both had them had been disappointed with the gift shop and its lack of toys. “I remember.”

Michael leant against the back of the steps. “Well, they sold crucifixes like the one I used to have.”

“So? Lots of places do.”

“Lots of places do, yes. But there’s only one Sistine Chapel.”

Lucifer still looked blank. “There’s only one jeweller’s shop in the town centre back home, too.”

Michael let loose an irritated sigh. It didn’t seem to startle him too much, though, so he didn’t feel that guilty about it.

“Yes,” he carried on. “But the jeweller’s isn’t as special as the Sistine Chapel, Lucifer.”

“I like the jeweller’s,” Lucifer said mildly. “The light shines through the crystals and onto the walls. It’s pretty.”

“It’s not sacred.”

His brother’s face didn’t change. He didn’t understand. “So?”

“So I should have got one from there,” Michael snapped. Lucifer blinked a few times, rapidly, and shifted away from him, looking back down at his ice-cream and eating it silently. Neither of them liked to fight- especially not Lucifer, so nearly all disagreements that could lead to arguments that could lead to fights were shut down as quickly as possible. It was quite an adult thing, he thought sometimes. Most brothers their age went for fights tooth and nail, but Lucifer despised them. Michael wasn’t sure when they had started. They were brothers- all brothers fought. Their dad’s friends liked to watch them fight, though, and a light punch to the arm for taking the last of the burger buns at a barbeque could be egged into something that left Lucifer in tears and Michael frozen to where he stood, unsure of what to do. Their dad seemed to like it, though. He seemed to like them fighting a lot more than he liked it when they held hands or Lucifer curled up to Michael wherever they sat.

He didn’t want to fight with Lucifer. Not here. Not now. So instead of demanding an answer, he asked for it.

“Didn’t you think the Vatican was good?” He was dismayed. He knew what the true answer was either way, and it disappointed them. Their father had recommended only the Vatican to them, too busy to draw up many more suggestions, and Michael had been awed by it- by all of it. Was he really seeing the tombs of the actual popes? Was that a real Swiss guard who guarded the life of the real pope? Was he truly seeing the work that Michelangelo’s hand had done- the infamous, the priceless, the Sistine Chapel? Lucifer had been silent beside him the whole time as Michael had moved from place to place, mouth hung open in a way that would make their father frown and nudge it shut again, muttering something about flies. He had assumed that Lucifer had been as in awe as he was, and that that had been the reason for his silence- that he, too, had been overcome by the sacred and numinous beauty of the whole place. To realise he hadn’t made him feel… cheated.

Lucifer shrugged. He shrugged. He shrugged. He didn’t care a bit for the sinking feeling Michael had.

“It was alright, I guess.”

“You guess?” Michael repeated, gaining the attention of several passer-by’s. He paid them no mind. “What do you mean, you guess?”

Lucifer just shrugged again, looking a little helpless. “I mean… it was a little boring, that’s all.”

Michael’s face dropped. He looked away, stoically licking at the sticky melted ice-cream on his hand.

“Michael,” Lucifer said desperately, shifting back and clinging onto his arm, sensing his change in tone.

“You’re getting ice-cream on me.”

Lucifer looked down, and began to dab at Michael’s bare arm with the hem of his shirt. “I just… Just because I didn’t like it doesn’t mean you can’t.”

“I know.”

Lucifer looked back at him, eyes wide and almost scared. Michael kept licking at the ice-cream, face carefully kept like thunder. He didn’t object when he rested his head on his shoulder, the sweat-damp blond of his hair tickling the side of his neck. After the ice-cream in his hand was back under control and not in danger of slipping down the sides of his wrists, he wrapped an arm around Lucifer’s shoulders, resting his own head on top of his and trying not to care that they hadn’t felt the same.

“I’m sorry I can’t like it like you can,” Lucifer said quietly. From the sound of his voice, he knew he was sorrier for himself than he was for Michael. His little brother tried to make them the same, tried to be like him- but he was unwilling to change, and so he tried to change Michael instead. And when that didn’t work he’d hide away in his room for a while, not coming out for much else than dinner. When he finally did come back into Michael’s room, the differences between them were never discussed again.

“I know,” Michael repeated. His voice was kinder this time around.

They finished their ice-creams in that way, Lucifer’s head on Michael’s shoulder and Michael’s head on his. With slightly sticky fingers that Lucifer entwined with Michael’s, they made their way back to the café their babysitter was left in. After a lunch in the cool basement of a very old and very Italian man, they were on the Metro. Summer sweat, both the fresh and stale kind, hung onto the air for the whole ride. Michael and Lucifer got a few looks from strangers, being two faintly angelic looking children who sat quietly for the whole ride, eyes on the floor and legs pressed against the other’s, as they were still small and skinny enough to share one of the seats, but not so small that it was the most comfortable of affairs. Lucifer was silently straining to understand the words around them as conversations flew back and forth between friends. Michael had to kick his foot when he nearly fell out his chair, leaning forward to try and hear the whispered words between a mother and her dark-haired daughter.

Michael hadn’t known what to expect from the Colosseum. From what Lucifer had said, he had half-imagined gladiators forming a path that as they knelt on one knee, letting an emperor glide through to go and watch a fight. He hadn’t thought it would look like an oddly intricate vase in an otherwise bare room, tourists snapping pictures and lingering for a while before moving on. The babysitter looked it up and down once, and then went away to find another café where he could buy a coffee and let it get unpleasantly cold while he waited for them to return.

The queue outside was a little disheartening, to say the least. Luckily, Lucifer was Lucifer, and Lucifer knew what he wanted way in advance. So they got to skip the queue of sun-creamed tourists wafting their leaflets to cool themselves down in the summer heat, and instead got to the back of a much shorter queue, Lucifer holding onto the tickets he had printed weeks back. An old Italian woman, dressed in a floor-length black dress with a shawl around her head, found the two of them adorable, cooing at them in Italian while her middle-aged son just gave them a forced smile. Lucifer tried to speak to her in Latin. She listened patiently, and then laughed when she realised what he was trying to do. She pinched his cheek, said something in Italian, and then parted ways as they were let in.

Michael had listened to Lucifer’s stories of the Colosseum. He knew about the Gate of Death, the water that filled where the floor was taken up and water-battles took place, the gladiators, the games, the emperors deciding on life or death by the way the crowd held their thumbs. He had listened, he had pondered, he had imagined.

Now he followed Lucifer as he ran up the stone steps that looked like they would crumble beneath his small feet; followed him and followed him and thought of how he needed to reapply his sun-cream, about how running when it was so hot and they had no water was a bad, bad idea, thought about how easy it would be to trip and scrape a knee on the rough-looking steps. He followed him to the top, his laughter mingling with Lucifer’s, breathless, elated. Lucifer didn’t stop on the top. He ran along what were the seats, and still Michael followed him. He jumped down two more steps, because Lucifer did, and he didn’t so much catch up to his brother as Lucifer completely stopped, looking down at the centre with an oddly blank expression.

He stood next to him, shoulder-to-shoulder, breath coming quickly and shallowly. Then it stopped completely as something… something so other he couldn’t put it into words, something overpowering… it took over him, crept up his spine and swallowed him whole.

It was something indescribable. Power, strong and ancient. Power that built up empires and brought them crashing to the ground again without another thought. Power that dug into his bones and shook them, shook the world. It was not the power of emperors, the power of generals, but the power of something older, stronger- because generals died, empires fell, and this felt eternal. 

He looked to his brother, the sun illuminating his blond hair like a halo and the profile of his young face. Even now, standing next to each other, he felt like Lucifer was still running ahead, just beyond reach. He didn’t look like an emperor, or an emperor’s son. He didn’t look like the prize gladiator or the sway of a crowd or a lion. He looked like an ancient god. It seemed impossible that people had turned away from the ancient gods, lost their faith in them when they were clearly still walking the Earth. 

Swallowing, Michael looked back to the stones below them- because that’s all it was to the two of them. Stones, stones and dust. Grand once, large once, but nothing to them. By himself, Michael was a visitor of this place. Next to Lucifer he became the creator, the observer, the destroyer. 

He curled his hand into Lucifer’s wordlessly, and from the small squeeze his brother gave him, he knew. Lucifer felt it too.

The words were spoken later in the cool of their air-conditioned room, the lights out, both brothers tired from the day. It was dark, and nearly midnight, but Michael couldn’t sleep, couldn’t get that feeling out his head. He thought Lucifer was asleep from the soft breathing coming from his bed. 

“You’re more likely to find gods there than in any chapel,” came the soft words. Michael didn’t chide his brother for his near-blasphemy, because he knew it was true. In the last few minutes of that day, Michael closed his eyes and let himself silently agree with his brother. He had found a god, after all, and Lucifer was right. It hadn’t been in the chapel.

He swore he wouldn't lose faith in his brother. 


	3. Chapter Three- Thirteen

Michael was a good kid. There had been a few jokes on his last birthday about how everything would change now he was thirteen. Talks of his voice getting deeper and his moods getting sourer, talks of cigarettes and alcohol and leather jackets and sneaking out. Talks of other things, too, once his father’s friends had a few drinks in them- things that had made him look down with cheeks steadily heating up in embarrassment. His father had gripped his shoulder tight and muttered for him to get a hold of himself when he had dropped Gabriel’s cup of juice in shock at what one of the ruddy-cheeked and suited men had joked about. 

He didn’t really like birthdays. They were more of a chance for his father to develop the personal side of his business relationships than they were a chance for him to have his own friends over. He had been allowed to have five friends around for the party. The rest of the children there were the children of the businessmen. Michael had slipped away upstairs after an hour and twenty minutes, taking a seat on Lucifer’s floor and sharing the plate of cake he had brought with him. So it hadn’t been too bad of a birthday. Lucifer had done his history homework for him, because it was his birthday and Lucifer had a knack for history. 

“Do you think it’s true?” Michael had asked him as Lucifer examined Michael’s history book, aiming to copy his handwriting so his teacher wouldn’t catch on. His brother’s talent at avoiding trouble was something Michael both feared and admired.

“Do I think what’s true?” Lucifer had murmured, and nudged Michael with his toe. “Make sure there’s plenty of chocolate on the next fork, Mickey. This is hungry work.”

“Don’t call me Mickey,” Michael had said mildly, but loaded up the next forkful, making sure to catch the chocolate icing. “What they said.” He nudged Lucifer’s lips with the ends of the fork, and Lucifer accepted the cake. He didn’t get an answer until the mouthful was completely chewed and swallowed- talking with his mouth full was something Lucifer avoided at all costs.

“I was up here, dummy,” Lucifer said, gesturing for more cake. "I don't know what you're talking about." Michael rolled his eyes, but gave it to him anyway.

“That I’m going to be one of _those_ teenagers,” Michael said. Lucifer tilted his head, looking up from the book. “You know. The ones that sneak out in stuff. Smoke. Drink. Skip school. That type of thing.”

“Oh,” Lucifer said, forehead creasing. He shook his head, beginning to write in the book. “No. You’re too good.”

Michael held back a frustrated sigh. He knew he was right, though. Still. A small part of him _wanted_ to- wanted to swear at his dad, maybe get picked up from school by the kids from high school to go and break into a building, or something.

“Do you think you’ll be one of those teenagers?” Michael asked, shovelling some cake into his own mouth. Lucifer looked up with a raised eyebrow.

“Me?” he asked. Then shrugged a shoulder, a smile growing on his face. “Dunno. Guess we’ll find out next year.”

“Next year, two weeks, three days,” Michael corrected absently, looking away and letting Lucifer take the fork from his fingers.

“Fifty four weeks and three days,” Lucifer continued, and tilted the fork so he took a large wedge from the bottom and a lot from the top, the sneaky thing. He was probably digging past the line they had traced in the icing that divided the cake into his half and Michael’s. Michael pretended not to notice. “Fifty four times seven is… thirty five times ten, plus twenty-eight, which is...three hundred and fifty plus twenty-eight, which is three hundred and seventy-eight. Add three is three hundred and eighty-one. We’ll find out in three-hundred and eighty-one days.”

“Three hundred and eighty-two,” Michael said, taking the fork back. He used it to cut along the line, separating it. He pushed Lucifer’s half further along. “Next year’s a leap year.”

“Mister Know-it-all,” Lucifer muttered, snatching the fork back and stabbing it into what was left of Michael’s half. “Getting an eleven year old to do his homework.”

“I do your math homework.” Michael grabbed his wrist, directing the fork of cake from _his_ half into his own mouth. He smirked triumphantly at him, cake crumbs falling from the corners of his mouth. Lucifer’s eyebrows dropped, his face falling into the expression that Michael knew meant he was in trouble. He quickly held the fork to his chest, ignoring the fact he was dirtying his clothes with icing. Lucifer snatched up the rest of the cake on the plate with his bare hands, stuffing what remained of both halves into his mouth. Michael's mouth fell open in shock, and Lucifer snorted loudly. Unable to close his mouth because it was so full, he rolled onto his back, laughter muffled by the cake.

“You’re gonna choke, you idiot,” Michael said, trying to be mad at him. He couldn’t help but smile as Lucifer laughed dangerously hard, seeing as his mouth was full and he was lying down. He pulled him back up, and Lucifer grabbed the plate, coughing up half of what he had tried to eat. Once he had stopped coughing, he looked up at him with a devilish grin and chocolate-coloured spit around his mouth. He held out the plate. 

“You can have the rest,” he said slyly. Michael pushed the plate away, mouth curling in disgust at the spit-soggy brown mush.

“That’s alright,” he said dryly. Lucifer’s eyes had lifted to someone standing behind him.

“And that’s how you win the cake war,” he had said. Gabriel from the doorway came to sit by Michael on the carpet, reaching to stick his stubby fingers in the cake mush.

“No, Gabe,” Lucifer had said patiently, guiding them away again. Gabriel had pouted, leaning his small back against Michael’s side.

“Where’s Raphael?” Michael asked.

“Playing,” Gabriel had said simply. “Cake.”

“That’s downstairs.”

“Happy birfday.”

“Thank you, Gabe.”

“Cake.”

“It’s still downstairs.”

“Happy birfday.”

“Thanks.”

Gabriel had directed his pout towards Lucifer. “Luci. You said being nice would make ‘em get me stuff.”

Michael’s mouth had fallen open while Lucifer had started to giggle. “You’re teaching him your tricks?” he had asked disbelievingly. He wrapped an arm around his youngest brother’s shoulders as he giggled too. He shook his head at Lucifer and trying to assume an authoritative expression. “That’s not right. He’s only five.”

“Come on,” Lucifer had grinned, poking his knee with the end of his pencil. “It’s funny, and my tricks should be passed on. Someone’s gotta be able to do Raphael’s homework, too, and teachers only get better at spotting other people’s handwriting as time passes. Someone in the family’s got to know the tricks of the trade.” He held out the book to Michael, showing him what he had written. His handwriting was, admittedly, exactly like Michael’s. He tried not to be impressed.

“Tricks of the trade,” Gabriel repeated quietly.

“Still not right,” Michael had muttered, taking the book to read over what he had written.

Lucifer had watched him in silence for a while. It would have felt unnerving, if he didn’t do it all the time. He re-read what he had written once he had finished, making sure he hadn’t slipped in any swear words. Gabriel shuffled away next to Lucifer, copying his position- leaning on a hand behind him, legs askew beneath him, the other hand resting across his legs. When Michael looked up, Gabriel even had the same expression- stony, but not unfriendly. Concentrated. Serious. It didn’t suit his young face the way it suited Lucifer’s, and the corners of Michael’s mouth twitched up in amusement at the sight.

“You don’t need to worry,” Lucifer said, and Gabriel nodded along, though he clearly had no idea what he was talking about. “You’re not going to turn into one of _those_ teenagers overnight.”

Michael’s mouth had dried at his brother’s demonstration of how well he knew him to know what he was worried about when even Michael couldn’t pinpoint it. Unable to respond with words, he had nodded wordlessly, though he had doubts about how true that was.

It seemed like Lucifer had been right though. He was halfway done with the age of thirteen now, and he was still struggling to come up with something to say before confession. 

Despite the fact he had done nothing wrong- nothing that required holy forgiveness, anyway- the wait for confession still made him inexplicably nervous. He knelt in the pew behind his father and Lucifer, Gabriel and Raphael on either side of him, both heads bowed in prayer (though from Gabriel’s closed eyes and heavy leaning against the backrest in front of him, he was guessing it was more a nap than a prayer) though Gabriel wasn’t old enough for confession yet. He just accompanied him, Lucifer, Raphael, and their father in their monthly visits to the nearest cathedral- which, due to the fact they lived on the outskirts of the town, was just shy of an hour’s drive away. The cathedral was blessedly cooler than their local chapel though, and Michael was glad, because he was already sweating nervously. He didn’t need heat-induced sweat, too. It helped that he didn't know the priests here, and they didn't know him. Bound to not breathe a word about what was said or not, it was still awkward receiving communion from a knowing priest, in his opinion.

The light streamed from the dustless stained glass windows, illuminating Lucifer’s hair to gold in front of him. It, too, was bowed in prayer, their father’s dark haired head bowed next to it. Michael was usually the first person people went to when they saw them- he shared his father’s combination of dark hair and lighter eyes, and was the most recognisable as his son. Maybe he could confess the pride he felt whenever Lucifer was passed over in favour of himself to talk about being his father’s son. But he was a resourceful person, and a priest’s ear wasn’t always at the ready for his sin. He sought absolution instead in the twinge in his heart whenever his father ran a hand through his brother’s light hair, reminding Michael that he had their mother’s hair, and their father had loved her more than anyone. He didn’t want to discuss the dangers of pride with a priest, anyway, so he decided against confessing it.

The woman in the confessional box stepped out, and his father, being next, stood, patting Lucifer’s head before going in, shooting Michael a meaningful look first. Michael let out a small sigh before nudging Gabriel awake. After the initial shock and rubbing of sleep from his eyes, he picked up the church bulletin from the floor with tired fingers. Michael closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on what he was about to do.

He didn't want to go to confession. He knew that was wrong of him, but still. He was a _good_ kid, and confession made him feel like a criminal. He could never think of something he had done that required confession, and the things he did confessed he rarely felt guilt over. It was a few minutes every month of his breathing getting more and more difficult in the dim light of the confessional, feeling like a sham and a liar as he confessed to things he either exaggerated or made up completely. Going once a month seemed a bit excessive to him- not that he'd ever voice that thought to his father. Uncle Joshua loved confession, he knew. He didn't understand how, or why, and had stared blankly when he had described the joy of the weight of sins being lifted from his shoulders, his father nodding along in agreement as he spoke. He'd never be able to relate to that feeling.

He wanted to go home.

“How we gonna get to Heaven?” Gabriel whispered, interrupting his thoughts. Michael’s eyes snapped open to see Lucifer turning his face to look at him, smirking, before turning back.

“What do you mean?” Michael asked tiredly. Gabriel shoved the leaflet in his direction.

“This. Jesus said it’s easier for camels to go through needles than rich people to Heaven.”

“So?”

“We’re rich.”

Michael fell silent, looking at the line drawing of a camel on the front of the leaflet. He had a point, he supposed. He hadn’t realised how rich they were until he had went to the house of a friend who wasn’t the son or daughter of a friend of his dad’s when he was eleven. He had had to hold back a thousand curious questions- like why they kept their cars in the driveway, not the garage, and why they had no spare bedrooms, and only two bathrooms, and no maid, and a keyboard with a missing A key instead of a piano, and why it was so _small_. He had managed to keep back each question, luckily, and had politely eaten the snacks of apple slices and peanut butter, and swallowed when he when his friend’s younger brother had rolled his eyes when he had asked for a knife and fork for the pizza that had been served for dinner. He hadn’t been asked back again.

“Confess sins and give to charity,” Michael decided on, and heard Lucifer snort.

“That cancels out the rich?”

“Yes, if you really mean it.” Now Lucifer’s shoulders were visibly shaking with restrained laughter, his head bowed low. Raphael leaned forward to poke him in the back, hard, and he turned.

“Hey!” he whisper-shouted, poking Raphael back. Hard.

“Stop,” Michael muttered, but Raphael was already rising to the challenge, puffing his little chest up and frowning. He opened his mouth to say something in a voice that would be way too loud- and then their father stepped out of the confessional, face falling into a frown when he saw what was happening. Raphael froze, mouth closing quickly. Gabriel shrunk to hide under the pew, and Michael wished he was small and young enough to join him when their father turned his eyes to him.

“Can’t I leave you in charge for five minutes without World War Three breaking out?” he hissed. Michael swallowed. Lucifer shot him an apologetic look, and went to slink out of the pew to the confessional. Michael felt like he had been slapped. Lucifer was just going to leave him there...? But their father held up a hand to stop him.

“No. Michael’s next.”

Lucifer resumed his position.

“I’ll be at the back, saying my penance,” his father said lowly as Michael stood, glad beyond belief but his shoulders slumped, trying to make himself as small as possible to avoid his glare. He got it anyway. “Think you’ll be able to handle that?”

Michael nodded stiffly, and his father turned on his heel, marching to the back. He watched him go, guilt curling in his stomach uneasily. At least he had something to confess now.

He slid into the confessional, kneeling and looking at what he could see of the priest’s shadowy face from behind the mesh.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," Michael began. "It has been one month since my last confession, and since then I have committed many sins."

He saw the priest give a nod. This was expected. No one came to confession to say they had been good.

He breathed in the stuffy air through his nose, eyes flicking away to the darkness to help him concentrate on how he would word it. The air in the confessional box always made him feel dizzy- it was like breathing in a mixture of sweat and incense and guilt. “I’ve been a bad son, and a bad older brother.”

The priest shifted, eyes staying firmly ahead. Anonymity. Guaranteed. 

“In what way, my son?” the priest asked in a soulful voice, and Michael resisted the urge to groan. A talkative priest. Perfect.

“I’ve let my dad down by letting my brothers fight,” he said shortly.

“Do you think there’s a particular reason you do this?” 

_Just give me the three fucking Hail Marys and let me be on my way, Father._ Well, there was something else for him to ask forgiveness for.

“No, I don’t.” He continued without pause. “I’ve also said profanities in my head, Father.”

A few more questions, answered with no more than three words each time. Penance- three Hail Marys, three Our Fathers, and three decades of the Rosary. The rather harsh penance wasn’t really surprising- the priest could probably sense his impatience. The Act of Contrition, a rather grudging prayer of absolution. A ‘thanks be to God’ when he was told to go in peace, and he was out. He led Gabriel to the back with him as Lucifer went in next, batting his eyelashes at him as he passed with his hands joined in fake prayer as he went in, looking particularly angelic. Michael wondered what he was confessing as he slid into the pew behind his father, kneeling to his left diagonal to keep an eye on Raphael up at the front as he began his silent penance. He'd save the decades for later.

Lucifer came out again after a few minutes, dipping down to genuflect in the direction of the altar before slipping in beside Michael, their father’s shoulders tensing visibly. Lucifer didn’t seem too bothered as he shuffled close to Michael, their elbows touching as he made the sign of the cross. 

Ten minutes later, after Raphael joined them again and had finally stopped his whispered prayers to the floor with his shoulders held up tightly, they were in the car, Lucifer in the front seat as usual, ignoring the tense atmosphere as he say along to the music loudly. Because he sang, Gabriel sang too, trying to sway side-to-side in time to the music- a difficult feat with Raphael and Michael on either side of him, unmoving and stiff-shouldered for the whole ride, both still cowed from their father's words from before.

Lunch was a brief and silent affair back home. After the plates were taken away, Michael breathed a sigh of relief and went to slip back up the stairs to his room. Lucifer followed him out, pushing Gabriel away in the direction of the playroom. Raphael headed to his own room- probably to do homework. Before he could follow him up the stairs, Lucifer grabbed his wrist and pulled him to the side.

“Luce-”

“Shut up.” Then he was dragged into their father’s private study, the door locked behind them. Michael’s eyes went wide and his mouth opened to protest, but Lucifer covered it quickly.

“Don’t lick my hand or something,” he warned in a low voice, and crouched down, tugging on Michael’s shoulder so he was pulled down with him. Michael stayed crouched even when Lucifer took the hand from his shoulder to carefully take the key from the lock. He watched his brother peer out the keyhole, wondering what in the hell he was doing.

“No one’s coming,” Lucifer murmured, and shot Michael a look before drawing his hand away from his mouth slowly. “Don’t be too loud.”

“What are we doing here?” Michael asked. “We’re not supposed to be here if dad’s not.” 

Lucifer straightened up, folding his arms as he looked down at him. “I'm sorry about trying to leave before.”

"What?"

"Before," Lucifer repeated impatiently. "When dad came out the confessional box and I tried to go in and let you take the heat."

He'd taken the heat either way, but he appreciated the sentiment. Not that there had been much heat. Luckily.

"I'm _meant_ to take the heat," Michael said, reaching to take his brother's hand, any lingering feelings of betrayal from before leaving him. "I'm your big brother. It's my job."

But Lucifer shook his head. "Not when you haven't done anything wrong, you're not. And it doesn't matter if you're older or not. We're a team. I shouldn't have tried to leave you like that."

Maybe this had been what Lucifer had confessed to doing. This was probably his penance. Maybe they had the same problem when it came to deciding what to confess.

"It's okay," Michael said carefully. "I don't get why this has to be said in here, though."

"It doesn't," Lucifer said easily. "But haven't you ever wondered what's in these files?"

Michael’s mouth fell open. Of course he had wondered. Their father’s study was a mystery, a puzzle that Michael and Lucifer and Raphael all wanted to solve. Even little Gabriel had started asking about it, and he had only been in there for a stern talking-to twice. Michael had been in there twelve times, Lucifer twenty-two, Raphael nine times. It was where they would be reprimanded, usually. It should have been a place the brothers feared to go, but it was a place that was too interesting to fear. Michael just feared his father instead when he sat behind the dark wood desk, fingers steepled under his chin as he watched him with steely eyes. The wall-to-floor shelves were packed with identical-looking file boxes, and he would have guessed they were filled with papers if not for the accounts that they weren’t. The three brothers had gathered on Raphael’s floor one day, trying to piece it together. From what they could tell, some of it was the more official documents. These were kept on the right hand of the shelves, near the window, and the more left the shelves were, the more personal the things in the files got. He wondered why Raphael hadn't been invited to this forbidden meeting, too. He knew that Lucifer knew their younger brother was just as curious as they were. He wondered if the mini fight in the cathedral had anything to do with it. Was this something Lucifer was doing just to spite Raphael?

Even if he was, Michael was still curious.

He stood back up too. “Well, yes,” he said, and Lucifer looked satisfied. “But we shouldn’t be here.”

“Oh well. Help me move this chair.” He went to the well-made leather chair, resting his hands on it and looking at him expectantly. Michael sighed wearily.

“My soul _just_ got cleansed,” he said, but went to it anyway. Together they dragged it over to leftmost shelf, and Michael held back yet another sigh as Lucifer stood on it. The soles of his shoes were sure to leave prints in the leather. He said nothing, though, and Lucifer pulled down one of the file boxes, and sat down on the arm of the chair. Michael sat on the seat of it, and Lucifer rested the file in his lap and opening it. Three tattered books lay in it, a few letters on old paper, the edges of a photograph peeking from beneath them. 

“What’s with the books?” Lucifer whispered, taking one out and looking at it doubtfully. Michael looked at the other two.

“It’s the same author for all three,” he observed. Lucifer’s nose wrinkled as he sniffed at the browned pages.

“Who the hell is Carver Edlund, then?” Lucifer asked, fingers tracing over the author’s name. Michael shrugged, picking up one of the letters. 

“’Dear Mr Edlund,’” he read aloud. Lucifer settled into his side as though he was reading a bedtime story. “’I’ve finished your latest book...’ blah blah blah, found it great, et cetera… ‘Yours, Miss Magda.’” 

“That’s mom’s maiden name,” Lucifer pointed out. Michael nodded. 

“So… dad stole Carver Whatever’s fan mail?”

Michael shook his head slowly, opening one of the books and flipped to the dedication. “’For my dearest Miss Magda,” he read. “’My rock, my support, the love of my life, and my newly wedded wife.’ Oh,” he said, figuring it out. “It’s dad.”

“What?” Lucifer said, snatching another of the books. “So it’s a… a pseudonym?” 

“I guess,” Michael said uncertainly, blinking slowly. He took the book from Lucifer’s hands, putting it back carefully. “So he had a life before the business, then.”

“He said he worked ‘tirelessly’ for granddad once he turned eighteen,” Lucifer said, and snorted. “Guess that was a big fat lie.”

“Maybe he wrote in his spare time.”

“Doubtful.” Lucifer slid the photograph from under the other letters, knocking the file as he did so. It fell to the floor, the letters spreading across the floor. “Shoot. We’ll get that later.”

“Luce,” Michael chided in a murmur, going to stand. Lucifer pulled him back, curling closer until he was practically on top of him.

“ _Later_ ,” he promised, and shoved the photograph under Michael’s nose. “Look at mom and dad in this first.”

Michael did, blinking. He took the photograph from in, mouth falling open uncertainly. It didn’t look like their strict father. He wasn’t wearing a suit, for a start. He was in a T-shirt and light blue jeans, his hair not gelled back but messy, his posture not perfect but sloppy, relaxed on a bench outdoors, facing camera. One hand was holding an acoustic guitar at his side, and the other was wrapped around the waist of their mom, who was sat on his knees, mouth open in a permanent laugh, looking up to the sky with her blonde hair thrown back. His mouth was an easy smile, eyes crinkled. He looked like he was in his early twenties, and he didn’t look like he was the front-man for business. He didn’t look like he knew the meaning of hard work. He looked like he’d been raised in sunlight with smiles and silk- not hardened by late nights and early rises, not made bitter with each mug of black coffee he consumed daily to ‘make him feel human,’ as he had explained to Gabriel impatiently one day.

“It doesn’t look like dad,” Lucifer said, voicing what Michael was thinking. They stared at the photo for a while longer, both drinking in the youth of their parents, the happiness on their faces, the beauty of their mother.

“Do you think we’ll end up like dad once we’re running the business?” Lucifer asked quietly.

Michael went to respond when the dining room door slammed shut from down the hallway. They both jumped up, Lucifer putting a finger to his lips.

“We should be okay,” Lucifer whispered after a few moments of pregnant silence.

Footsteps began to make their way to the study. Michael froze, heart leaping to his chest, photograph slipping from his fingers to the floor. They weren’t supposed to be there. They definitely weren’t supposed to go through files, and they _certainly_ weren’t meant to let them fall to the floor. But it was too late for regrets now.

Lucifer shoved him towards the window. “Go, Michael!” he hissed, and Michael just stared at him until he rolled his eyes, walking over to open the window. “Go, now,” he whispered urgently, and when Michael still didn’t move he grabbed a fistful of his shirt and practically manhandled him out the window onto the ground below.

“But you’ll get in trouble,” Michael whispered, and Lucifer glanced behind him to where the footsteps had stopped outside the study.

“I know I will,” he whispered back. The doorknob turned, but the door was locked. Lucifer winced but pushed Michael away. “Go. Go through the backdoor and sneak away upstairs when I’ve let him in. Pretend you knew nothing.”

“You’re gonna get in such deep trouble.”

“Make me a jam sandwich and bring it to me once he's finished shouting, then. Now go.” He went to shut the window, but Michael’s hand darted out, pulling his head out the window so he could lean up and kiss his cheek gratefully. Whether his apologies before were for his penance or not, and whether he had brought only Michael to spite Raphael or not, Michael didn't know and didn't need to know. 

“Thank you, Luce,” he whispered, and then darted away through the budding flower bushes, being careful not to trample on them. It occurred to him that he already had something else to say the next time he went to confession. It also occurred to him that he hadn’t even completed the penance for his most recent confession. As he silently opened the backdoor that led into the kitchen, hearing his father’s shouts already echoing through the house, it also occurred to him that he didn’t particularly care.


	4. Chapter Four- Sixteen

The heat of summer always seemed to make the perfume of flowers much stronger. If it wasn’t for the fact that it was the summer holidays, Michael would have remarked to Lucifer why that was- he was pretty sure he could combine knowledge from both biology and physics to come up with a reasonable explanation. Probably. But it was summer, so he just breathed it in and was glad for the fact he didn’t have hay fever. That, and Lucifer wasn’t there to make the remarks to in the first place.

His brother had taken to seizing any schedule he had of sleep and throwing it away for the summer. This wasn’t unusual- not for Lucifer, anyway. Some of Michael’s favourite memories with his brother were conversations that were late night for him and his brother’s version of an early morning, both sitting on his carpet, Michael with a mug of hot chocolate and Lucifer with a mug of coffee, voices low and laughter quiet as the rest of the house slept. He was used to seeing his brother emerge from his room at all sorts of hours during the summer, hair messy and eyes tired from sleep. He had hoped, however, that he would manage to get up at a normal time for Raphael’s birthday- if not for their younger brother’s sake, then to at least keep Michael company as they watched him tear through the pile of presents. Maybe help him with the cooking of the breakfast. He had thought that he would manage to drag himself from sleep in time for Raphael’s party. It had become somewhat of a tradition since his own thirteenth party to sneak away together during parties- their brothers’ birthdays, their father’s occasional ‘get-togethers' that consisted of people in suits traipsing around and drinking and laughing. Gabriel always tried to track them down when they went off together. He was only sometimes successful.

Now, though, it was past halfway through the party (if his estimate of how long it would last was correct), and Lucifer was nowhere to be seen. Michael had sat in his own room for a while, debating whether to go and wake him up, or maybe take a nap in his bed with him. It wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for either of them. Many a time had Michael snuck into Lucifer’s room late at night and get beneath the covers, no matter whether he was awake or not. He would give him a shove to wake him up, and then Lucifer would give a grunt as a greeting and pass him an earbud so they could listen to his ‘sleeping playlist’ together- a series of slow songs that Michael would internally repeat the lyrics to, hoping to look them up the next morning and download them himself. 

It was a more recent thing that Michael no longer felt like he knew his brother the way he had. He had become more and more of an enigma instead of someone Michael knew better than he knew himself. He used to feel he knew the air in his lungs, the marrow of his bone, the essence of his soul. Now his brother was someone who Michael would have avoided knowing if he was in his grade at school. Michael was still a do-gooder, for the most part. He had a handful of friends he would probably never contact after graduation, but they were people he could walk to classes with, eat lunches with, talk with about small things. Most people left him alone, and he knew he gave off the vibe of getting through high school for the diploma and nothing more. He wasn’t the type to go to football games, and probably wouldn’t go to prom unless he got a girlfriend and had that duty to fulfil. He wouldn’t return in ten years for a reunion. The teachers could tell this, too, and were polite with him, but didn’t give him any special treatment or acknowledgment. A few had tried, probably thinking he was there to get buddy-buddy with teachers due to his generally good behaviour and good grades. Once they realised he wasn’t there to make fast friends with anyone, let alone teachers, they left him alone, too.

Lucifer liked to inform Michael of all the things he had observed about him and the reasons he did them late at night with Michael sitting opposite him, listening silently. It didn’t strike him as fair that Lucifer was able to know him so well and Michael couldn’t know Lucifer in the same way anymore. He would finally decipher his clothing taste, and then he would have to learn about his new music taste. He’d learn that, and then there would be two new things to learn about. He’d left it too long, though, and now there were too many things about Lucifer that Michael didn’t know and felt he never would. So he had stopped trying. He didn’t think Lucifer was best pleased with that, but it couldn’t be helped. Not really.

So he didn’t bother going into Lucifer’s room and shaking him awake. If he was alright with leaving Michael alone, then Michael would just leave him alone. He’d grabbed a book and headed downstairs, sneaking out the back door (because the party was on the front lawn) and taking a long route around the back of the house, intending to get to the back of the chapel. It was a hard job, seeing as the chapel was basically opposite their front driveway and he didn’t have enough energy in him to walk for longer than necessary to avoid being seen. It came down to taking a deep breath and sprinting when he felt sure that no children were in the shaded ends of the hilly front lawn, or no teenagers had snuck off from where people were congregated by the house at the top of the hill. He hadn’t been spotted, and was soon behind one of the flower bushes, back resting against the cool of the chapel wall and book resting on his knees. It was quiet except for the humming of bees and faint noises coming from the party. It would have been pleasant, if not for how boring it was without Lucifer. 

His heart almost stopped when his phone buzzed in his pocket. It sank when he didn’t recognise the number.

“Hello?”

“Michael,” came his brother’s voice, and Michael’s heart lifted again. He could hear voices in the background. “This is…” He trailed off. Michael tried to make sense of the background noises. “Would you be able to get the car?”

“What?” 

“The car,” Lucifer said, and then the quality of his voice improved, and Michael could practically see him move the mouthpiece close. “And the ID. I know you have one.”

A spur of the moment thing. A stupid thing, because it wouldn’t show him to be twenty-one for another year, and Michael wouldn’t even use it then.

“Why-”

“Car, and _that_ ,” Lucifer said, speaking quickly. “Then come downtown. Find the town hall. There’s four shops opposite it. Go into the building next to the shop that sells paint.”

“I don’t-”

“You’ll understand once you get there,” Lucifer said, and now it was clear that he was being rushed. “Please, Michael.”

“How do you expect me to get the car out with all the people?” Michael asked, his annoyance seeping into his voice. “Quit the games, Luce. Tell me what’s going on.”

“I can’t,” Lucifer said. “You wouldn’t come. Please, Michael, just- just find a way, alright?”

Michael didn’t respond.

“I’ve got to go,” Lucifer said, the background voices getting louder, closer. “Please, Michael.” And then he hung up. Michael took the phone away from his ear slowly, and then turned narrowed eyes on it. How typical of Lucifer to give him some cryptic, bullshit mission. He must know that it wouldn’t be easy. 

He considered picking up his book again and forgetting all about it. Let Lucifer deal with it for once. But he threw the book down instead, jumping up and pacing through the flower bushes, trying to turn his annoyance into a plan. 

His out-loud thinking had curses threaded through it, but soon he was picking up his book and phone again, jogging away and up the road, before cutting across and going up the hill. Over the short fence that marked where their land began, a short walk that passed two younger teenagers who watched him guiltily as he ignored the fact they were practically in each other’s lap, and he was inside again. 

He left the book on his bed and grabbed his wallet, the fake ID safely secured behind his real driver’s license. He managed to locate his father soon enough, sat in a circle of chairs with the other parents who had more money than what could be spent in a lifetime.

“Dad,” Michael said, noticing the glass of a pale brown substance he was holding. From the slightly slack look on his face, it wasn’t his first. Good. That should make this easier. “You know that book series Raphael was reading a few weeks back?”

“No,” his father said. Fair enough. It hadn’t been _him_ who Raphael had come to when he was trying to finish homework for one of the devil teachers who had wanted them all working up to the very last bell. Raphael had been quite excited, describing the whole boring plot to him as though he had ever expressed an interest in children's books in the past five years. He’d made a few vague murmurs of interest as his little brother talked, which seemed to satisfy him. He’d left to go and bore Gabriel after a while.

“Well, I was talking to one of the kids, and the new one’s was released two days ago. I don’t think Raphael knows yet. Could I go and get it for him? Please?” he added. “It won’t take long, I’ll be back soon.”

“Now?”

Michael nodded. His father looked at him for many long, silent seconds in a way that made him sure he could see the lie. Then he reached for his wallet, pulled out a fifty dollar note, and handed it to him. 

“Get some dip while you’re out,” he said faintly, and Michael thanked whoever made alcoholic drinks silently as he nodded, heading to the garage. It took a few fake smiles at the younger children to get them to move out the way and swallowing the guilt that rose at Raphael’s confusion as he watched his older brother drive away from his birthday party, but soon enough, Michael was on the road and heading downtown. His phone didn’t buzz with a text from Lucifer and he was getting more and more annoyed with each passing second. 

He parked in the free parking lot near the town hall and shoved his hands into his pockets. As Lucifer had said, there were three shops opposite it, and the far right one had paint cans outside it with prices stuck on with neon post-its. Next to that, though-

And this had to be a joke. Michael was frozen by the town hall steps, staring in disbelief. No. No, this wasn’t possible. It was a joke. A joke. There was no way that Lucifer would actually need him to go into a _police station_.

He went in anyway, movements stiff and face hard. And there was Lucifer, there was fucking Lucifer, sitting on a bench near the desk with a handful of kids from the public school, all with their heads hung. Some had their palms pressed against their foreheads, some were stating at the ground, some had their eyes closed. Lucifer was sat bolt upright, a little apart from them- though Michael wasn't fooled. He’d seen him with them before, after school, Lucifer’s school tie loosened and his leather jacket replacing the blue 'Saint Sebastian’s Private Catholic High School' blazer. He had taken then cigarette from his mouth, laughing, the casual way he held it indicating that it wasn't his first cigarette and the carton he took from his jacket confirming that, smoke curling up from his mouth into the sky. He didn't knew Michael had seen him. He didn't know that Michael knew he smoked, had found three cartons hidden in his sock drawer when he had been looking to borrow a pair of socks. Michael hadn’t mentioned it to him. He didn’t want an explanation, or the attempts of one.

Lucifer looked up from the table to him, and his unreadable expression melted into relief and delight when he saw his brother. Michael ignored him, walking up to the desk.

“You over eighteen?” asked the officer behind it. He didn’t look much older than eighteen himself.

Michael gave a short nod. He placed all his faith in god as he flashed the ID to the officer. “Our father’s too ill to come himself, unfortunately.”

“You don’t have a mother?”

“Yes,” Michael said coldly. “But she was buried quite a few years ago, officer.”

That seemed to throw the young officer off. Good. He swallowed, taking a sip from the mug and nodding. “Which one’s yours?”

Michael turned to the bench, taking in all the faces with a stony expression. He pointed at Lucifer, who was watching the floor, face carefully neutral. “That one.”

“Ah,” the officer said, putting a form on the desk. “Underage public drinking. That’s the reason, in case you were wondering. I’m required to tell you either way.”

“I apologise,” Michael said shortly, and scribbled a signature where the officer pointed. A flash of anger bolted through him. Underage public drinking? What the hell was Lucifer thinking? “It won’t happen again.”

The officer motioned for Lucifer to stand up. He did, coming to stand next to Michael with his head held high. The officer gave them both an uneasy smile. “You be good for your brother, alright?” he said in a friendly tone.

So Lucifer’s charm had clearly had some effect on the officer. Michael doubted that he would be friendly with the other kids there- though that may have had something to do with the clothes Michael was wearing and the neatness of his hair even in the sticky heat of summer. Even Lucifer in his damn stupid jacket (because it must be uncomfortably hot- it was leather and it was summer, for Christ’s sake) had the look of being brought up in money. It was also probably why he had been sat on the bench near the exit rather than the bench in the cells he knew they had. Money granted leniency- even for his friends, apparently.

“I will,” Lucifer said. With another uncertain nod from the officer they left, and Michael met the glares of the leftover kids on the bench. Eyes flickered away quickly. He tried not to feel too satisfied by that.

“I think they’re scared of you,” Lucifer said mildly as Michael walked silently to the car. He was surprised Lucifer wasn't trying to get him to bust out some of the other kids, too. He doubted they all had stupid older brothers who'd drop everything to collect their stupid younger sibling from the station.

“I don’t care what your little friends think of me,” Michael snapped. “I want to know why the hell you were arrested.”

“They're not my friends. And public drinking. Weren’t you listening?”

“Drinking at midday? And you're fifteen. You shouldn't be drinking at all.”

“A little before midday, technically,” Lucifer said, jogging every few steps to keep up with Michael’s long strides. "And it was only beer."

“You were drinking _before_ midday?” Michael said, and then resumed his monotonous voice, his face of stone. He brushed off the age issue. Both of them knew enough about alcohol (thanks to their father) and the content of it to consider drinking beer as basically drinking flavoured water, unless consumed in large quantities. If it had been anything more, he would have pushed. “You’re worse than dad sometimes. We're _known_ in this town, Lucifer. You should know better than to show our family up by drinking in public with the likes of them.”

“I’m sorry,” Lucifer said, ignoring the comment about their father. It was a low blow, and Michael knew it. The two of them were overtly aware their father was drinking himself into an early grave. He was a functioning alcoholic, though, so at least there was that. He pulled on Michael’s arm to try and get him to stop. Michael carried on walking.

“I don’t care if you’re sorry. You didn’t show up to our little brother’s birthday party because you were too busy _drinking_ with your friends.”

“They’re _not_ my friends,” Lucifer muttered. He got into the car when Michael unlocked it with a click of the keys. “And I doubt Raphael cares. He doesn’t like me too much. Probably didn't want me there in the first place.”

“ _I_ cared,” Michael responded, buckling the seat belt, too angry to care that he was admitting things Lucifer could teasingly use against him. “ _I_ wanted you there. And instead I have to pick you up at the police station for drinking before mid-fucking-day with your layabout friends.”

Lucifer didn’t correct him this time. He didn’t seem bothered that Michael had insulted his not-friends, or that his goody-goody brother was swearing, when normally he’d pick up on that.

“You wanted me there?” he asked instead, expression and tone unreadable.

“Of course I fucking did,” Michael said irritably. “You think I want to hang around with a bunch of eleven year-olds?”

Lucifer shrugged, face unreadable.

“Well, I don’t.” Michael turned the engine on, heading in the direction of the bookstore and hoping there was a book he could get for Raphael. 

They were both silent for a long while. He could see Lucifer picking a thread from the hem of his shirt, head bowed. He should reach across and stop him, because a loose thread could lead to a hole in the shirt, and a hole in the shirt would mean it was ruined. He tried to ignore it instead.

“Thank you,” Lucifer said quietly. 

Michael had never been arrested before. A community officer had stopped him once in the street for a ‘friendly chat’ that had, in fact, just been a friendly chat. It had still left him a little shaken. He couldn’t imagine _actually_ being arrested, and having to pin his hopes on his brother to get him out. His face softened.

“I’m your brother,” he responded simply.

More silence.

“Please don’t tell dad.” This was whispered, barely audible above the sound of the air conditioning. Michael’s grip on the wheel tightened.

“I have to,” Michael said, and Lucifer froze.

“Please,” he repeated, more desperate this time. He unbuckled his seatbelt, and Michael wondered faintly if he was planning to throw himself out the car if Michael said no or something. 

“Lucifer,” Michael said in a serious voice. “You know I’ll get you out of trouble, like back there. But letting you get away with it with dad?” He shook his head slowly, and Lucifer moved too quickly for him to register properly. One moment he was in his own seat, and the next he was half on Michael’s and half sat on the cup holder in the middle, arms thrown around Michael’s neck and head buried in his neck.

“Lucifer!” Michael repeated, trying to shake him off while keeping both hands on the wheel. He wasn’t used to driving too much- his license was pretty new, and he’d drove less than twenty times unsupervised. He was still in the stages of checking the mirror before driving, keeping things off the dashboard, things like that. Having someone hugging him while driving didn’t seem _safe_. “I’m driving- you’re gonna make me crash!”

Lucifer moved his arms to loop them around his middle instead. Like that was any safer. “Michael, dad’ll kill me. You know he will-”

“-He’s not going to kill you.”

“You know what I mean. He’ll be so mad, and we’ll argue- and you know how much Gabe hates it when we argue- and he’ll be so angry, Michael- please, this one time, please don’t tell him.”

For all Michael could see through the blatant manipulation his brother was trying to pull, he still sounded genuinely scared.

“It’s always ‘this one time,’ Luce,” Michael said tiredly. “Next time it will be ‘this one time,’ and the time after that, and the time after that-”

“There won’t be a next time,” Lucifer said into his neck. “I promise, okay? I promise.”

Michael closed his eyes. Briefly, because he was still driving. Doing this one thing for Lucifer wouldn’t make him a bad son, would it? He supposed the real question was whether he wanted to be a good son, or wanted to seem like a good son- because he’d lied to get the car out, he’d lied to leave his little brother’s party already, and if he told his father about another of Lucifer’s fuck-ups, he’d have to admit to his own lies. Lies that had been to protect Lucifer. Because he knew that if he did tell his dad, he’d find a way from keeping Michael from helping him again. Maybe he’d stop them spending time together. Make Lucifer get the bus to and from school instead of letting Michael drive him come September. Lock their bedroom doors at night so they couldn’t have their late-night conversations. Make them unable to talk, properly talk to each other. Or, worse, make them unable to stand each other’s presence so that Michael wouldn’t _want_ to help his brother. He wasn’t sure how his father would do it. All he knew was that this would make him determined enough to find a way.

And it technically wouldn’t be lying to not tell his father about this, he told himself. It would just be keeping up a previous lie- which wouldn’t technically be lies either if he got Raphael a book and some dip for the party. It would just be avoiding the truth, really.

This would make for an interesting conversation in his next confession, he was sure.

“I need to get Raphael a book,” he murmured instead, and Lucifer relaxed against him, turning his head to look at the road, though he stayed where he was, arms still wrapped around him and head still under his chin, short hair tickling his neck. Michael didn’t have the heart to shove him back into his own seat. He had been arrested, after all. He probably needed closeness to calm down again. “And then some dip.”

“He asked you for dip?”

“No. Dad did, when I said I was going to get Raphael a book. So I could get the car.”

“Oh.”

Lucifer stayed in the car when Michael went into the bookshop, giving him a small wave when he passed the car to cross the road to go into the supermarket. Michael waved back, book tucked under his arm. It wasn’t the right one, because surprise surprise, luck wasn’t so kind to have his made-up conversation with a kid be true. If his dad asked, he’d just say he thought it was the right one. Raphael wasn’t a picky kid. He’d probably enjoy it.

Lucifer was back in his own seat when Michael returned to the car, toying with something in his hand. 

“What’s that?” Michael asked, reaching to the back to put the bags there. Dips, a box of Raphael’s favourite cookies, a new edition of candy bars for Gabriel. He’d considered picking up nicotine gum for Lucifer, but decided that might look snide. He’d gotten him regular gum instead.

“Present.”

“For Raphael?”

“For you.”

Michael blinked. “It’s not my birthday.”

Lucifer heaved a sigh, rolling his eyes. “I know _that_. Come on. Hold out your hand.”

He did, cautiously. Lucifer dropped something small and cold into his hand- and how he managed to keep anything cold in this whether, especially his fingers, would forever be a mystery to him. 

He looked at what had been dropped into his palm with another blink. He recognised what it was almost immediately- he just wasn’t sure _why_ Lucifer would give him his silver crucifix. He hadn’t been wearing it lately. Michael had figured it was due to a small teenage rebellion against their family’s religion. He hadn’t been too bothered- most teenagers went through similar things, and Lucifer still managed to drag himself up from bed in time for church each Sunday, no matter the hangover. Michael normally sat between his father and Lucifer on the pew, Gabriel on Lucifer’s other side and Raphael at the front in an altar server’s alb- a job that had never particularly appealed to Michael, and because it hadn’t appealed to Michael it hadn’t appealed to Lucifer, and because it hadn’t appealed to Lucifer it hadn’t appealed to Gabriel, either. Michael was glad for Lucifer’s copy-cat nature in this case. It was nice to have someone to hold in laughter with when the altar servers almost tripped on their robes, or when the reader had a coughing fit in the middle of the responsorial psalm. But if Lucifer still carried the crucifix around… Michael wasn’t sure what to make of it.

He'd asked him, once, suddenly stone-faced and serious. A straight-up question- "do you believe in God?"

He'd gotten a blink in return, and then a small smile had curled onto his face. "'The Father almighty?'" he'd asked, continuing Michael's accidental quoting of the Apostles' Creed. It had been tempting to continue the back-and-forth reciting of it. Michael had resisted that temptation.

"That's the one," he'd said, and Lucifer's face shifted into an almost guilty one that answered his question immediately.

"It's not that I don't believe in God," Lucifer had said quickly, seeing Michael's face. "It's just... I don't see a reason why I should."

Michael had just raised an eyebrow, and instead of trying for an argument, Lucifer tried to explain himself.

"Think about it, okay?" Lucifer said, looking more and more desperate. "How many gods have been believed in, ever? Greek gods, pagan gods, Norse gods, Egyptian gods, Aztec gods, Roman gods... I just don't see why _our_ god is the right one."

"That's why it's called faith, Lucifer."

He'd assumed that Lucifer didn't believe at all after that. Looking at the cross in his hand, though... he wasn't sure.

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m giving it to you,” Lucifer said simply. “Yours broke, didn’t it?”

Michael looked up at him slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “When I was seven. And it was the chain that broke.”

“Oh,” Lucifer said, and scratched the side of his head. Both of them looked at the mini Jesus, lying in Michael’s hand. For such a little thing, the pain on his face was disturbingly well-crafted. “Sorry. I forgot which it was. I’m not sure where the chain is. You don’t need to keep it.” He reached out to take it back, and Michael closed his hand around it, drawing it close.

“No, it’s okay. I didn’t keep the cross after a while.” He carefully put it into the pocket of his shirt, patting it to make sure he hadn’t just dropped it. No so much 'didn't keep' as he'd let Lucifer take it a few years back when his room was essentially invaded by him, seemingly determined to read every book description and open every drawer. Lucifer had held it up and asked to keep it- and who was he to refuse a prize to someone who wanted to know him so well? “Thank you.”

Lucifer nodded once, looking satisfied. “You’re welcome.”

Michael didn’t look away from his face. Didn’t start the car. He wasn’t even trying to figure him out- he knew he never would, so there was no point. 

“Are you ever going to tell dad?” Michael asked, and Lucifer’s face creased in confusion.

“About…?”

“About not wanting to join the family business.”

Lucifer’s face creased more. Michael didn’t blame him- it was a rather large shift in topic. But it was something Lucifer had admitted to him two years back in the dim of dawn, and he never seemed to want to talk about it, never wanted to satisfy Michael’s curiosity, or answer his questions. Michael got the feeling that he might answer them now.

“Oh,” Lucifer said after a long pause. Another pause. “No.”

“Why?” Michael asked, voice soft as though he was frightened of scaring him. He wasn’t sure whether this would scare him, though, and he couldn’t be too cautious. 

“Because,” Lucifer said, shrugging. He brought his feet up onto the seat, hugging his knees to his chest.

“Because…?” Michael repeated. “Are you afraid dad would write you out of the will?” For two boys who loved their father, despite everything, they were quite casual about mentioning the will, their inheritance. Gabriel sometimes joined in, though he was more concerned about deciding who would get which rooms to themselves. Michael and Lucifer were more about deciding what they would do with their money, the places they would travel, the cities they would see. Together, of course. That much went unsaid.

“No, he wouldn’t do that.” His confidence wasn’t cockiness. As much as Lucifer was more in trouble than out of it, Michael knew he was the favourite. It had confused him for a long time, and then he would remember that forbidden exploration of his office. Maybe Lucifer reminded him of the person he used to be. That, and he looked like their mother. “He’d try to split us up. Make us spend less time together. Wouldn’t want my anarchic ideas getting into your head.”

“So?” Michael said. “You wouldn’t have to lie to him anymore.” He wasn’t sure why he was asking, demanding an answer. He asked him anyway.

Lucifer fell silent for a while. After realising he wouldn’t get a response right away, Michael turned the engine on again, the air conditioning filling the silence. He didn’t start driving. Not yet.

“So I’d rather lie than have him split us up,” came the eventual answer. Michael looked away from the pigeon he had been watching who seemed determined to pick each and every crumb from the ground outside. Lucifer wasn’t looking at him. He, too, was watching the pigeon.

“I guess I would, too.”

Lucifer looked back at him. They both stared at each other silently, and if it had been anyone else, Michael would have looked away by now, cleared his throat uncomfortably. But it wasn’t anyone else. It was Lucifer. He was an enigma that Michael didn't need to solve to be able to love.

“You’re the best brother,” Lucifer said, the softness of his voice matching Michael’s.

“Don’t tell Gabriel that.” 

It seemed that the silence would resume. Then Lucifer looked away, grinning.

“Not my problem if the little brat’s whiny,” Lucifer joked, and Michael let his face slip into a smile as he began to drive.


	5. Chapter Five- Nineteen

Their house was a grand one.

Large. Empty.

Not empty of furniture- of course not. Old money was an odd thing. Most of the furniture had stories behind it. His father didn’t bother retelling them too much, but Michael knew them all the same. So-and-so had owned that armchair. The fork collection had been in the family longer than arthritis had. That dining table had been made by a famous Italian violin luthier. So on, so forth. None of it meant anything. It should have bled history, it should have sparked interest, but it just didn’t. Probably because it intended to bleed history and spark interest.

It wasn’t empty of people, either. There were far too many people, in Michael’s opinion. Constantly flitting in and out, making their presence known with voices as gravelly as the driveway outside. Sure, it had been that way since Michael had been a child- longer, probably. His father had probably dealt with the same thing when he had been a kid, too- a house that never truly felt like home.

And so the house was full, of furniture, but it was empty. Hollow. Hollow stories. Hollow people. Hollow Michael.

Lucifer had filled everything out before. Made the stories of the furniture seem mildly interesting. Made Michael feel like a real person, instead of an imitation of one.

But now he was gone, and everything was worse.

‘Gone’ wasn’t really the right word. He hadn’t disappeared into the night and left without a word. Michael wished that had been the case- but it had been shouted words between him and his father on a February night (a February morning, technically), when all the other people had left and only the five of them remained. Lucifer and his father downstairs, arguing, which was all they seemed to do now. Michael had never told their father about Lucifer’s plans to not join the family business. He had found out anyway. It had been Gabriel sobbing like his heart was breaking in his room, unable to sleep for the shouting downstairs. Raphael silent in his. Sleeping, listening, who knew. Michael in the shadows at the top of the stairs, watching with dry mouth.

His father had shouted up for him, telling him to pack a bag. Like a puppet on a string, Michael went into Lucifer’s room and did just that. A backpack. He stuffed clothes into it. Lucifer’s wallet. Gloves, socks, an extra jumper. He darted into his bathroom, grabbing his deodorant, toothbrush, shower gel. His father shouted up to tell him to hurry up, and Michael crossed the hallway to grab an extra wad of money from his own wallet, stuffing it into a pair of the socks he had packed. He threw in a well-read book from Lucifer’s shelf, and then an untouched one. He hesitated before stuffing his bible in there, too. He knew Lucifer had used it to make a book hollow, hiding a switchblade, of all things. He prayed he wouldn’t have to use it.

After a second’s hesitation he threw the carton of cigarettes in, too, and then zipped it up. He thought nothing of the silence when he passed Gabriel’s room. His father snatched the bag from him when he got downstairs.

“I give you an order, I expect it done right away,” he said, and Michael’s heart sank as he began going through the bag, the first thing he pulled out being the cigarettes. He sent Michael a dark look; though Lucifer’s smoking habit was something poorly hid.

While he was occupied, Lucifer threw himself at Michael, sobbing and pleading into his neck, telling him they could both leave- leave their home, their father, their inheritance, their lives. Michael was eighteen, he had pointed out while he sobbed. They only needed each other.

Michael had just patted his leather-jacketed back.

Luckily for both Michael and Lucifer, their father didn’t think to open the bible. He’d pulled Michael away from Lucifer roughly, hands on his shoulders after throwing the bag to his feet. Lucifer had shouldered it, looking confused. Then his face had crumpled.

“Leave,” he had commanded, but Lucifer had done nothing but carry on sobbing, head cradled in his hands where he stood.

“Get him out of here, Michael,” he had said instead. Lucifer had looked up at that, sobs halting as his breath caught in his throat.

“Michael,” he had said softly, shaking his head slowly. “You don’t have to-”

“Yes, he does.” A sharp push to his back. Michael stumbled forwards, and would have fallen if not for Lucifer’s hands coming up to grip his shoulders, steadying him.

“Michael,” he had said in the same soft voice. His eyes had been wide and afraid and Michael had been afraid too, unsure of what to do in the same way he was unsure of everything nowadays. “You can convince him… change his mind, Michael. I know you can.”

“Just do it.” Raphael’s voice had came from the top of the stairs. “It’ll be over then.” His voice had been quiet, words intended for his ears alone. Lucifer had heard them too, though, and he had swallowed, glancing up the stairs.

Michael had put his hands on Lucifer’s shoulders. Gently, he had led him to the door. His little brother’s head had shaken more and more vigorously with each backward step.

It hadn’t been Lucifer leaving quietly. It hadn’t been silent tears slipping down his cheeks as he resigned himself to his fate, slipping away into the darkness. It had been him clinging to the door frame, howling as Michael pried his fingers from the frame as gently as he could. His father had taken a seat on the bottom stair, watching.

“Please!” Lucifer had cried, and Michael had had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from crying. “Don’t let him do this, don’t make me go!”

“I’m sorry,” Michael had whispered. It had felt like a lie, a sin on his lips. If he had truly been sorry, he would have stopped doing it anyway.

“Michael,” Lucifer had pleaded, and once Michael had finally managed to release his grip on the door, holding both his wrists to stop him from just grabbing it again, Lucifer had crashed into his chest, ducking his head to fit it under Michael’s chin. Michael’s hands had released Lucifer’s on instinct, arms coming up to wrap around him protectively.

“Michael,” had been all Lucifer said, his voice broken from tears, hoarse from shouting. Michael had sobbed then, too, and he had held him close. He could practically feel hope radiating from his little brother. He wondered if hearts could truly break when he began to release his brother, as he pushed on his shoulders again. It had been Michael who had had silent tears slipping down his face as he looked at Lucifer, still a step away from being inside. His shoulders were slumped. His face was tear-stained. Michael had closed the door. His father had stood to lock it, taking the key with him as he went upstairs. Raphael had long returned to his bedroom.

Half an hour later and he could faintly hear his father’s snoring. He had slid down the wall and sat with his knees to his chest, head resting between them. He could hear Lucifer’s soft sobs and soft knocking as he waited to be let in.

“Please, Michael,” he had whispered many times, voice barely audible through the door. Michael had laid a hand flat on the door, head bowed as though he was blessing it. His heart ached.

The grandfather clock quietly informed him it was a quarter to two in the morning. He glanced out the glass part of the door. Lucifer was gone. He sank back to his place on the floor, taking deep, sharp breaths, eyes closing. He’d had one panic attack in the past, and had chalked it down to sleep deprivation and stress from school. He’d been stood at his locker, hands beginning to shake violently and a weight pressing on his chest. Lucifer had known, somehow he had known, and he was suddenly at Michael’s side, leading him to under the stairs by the art department and rubbing his shoulder as he had sobbed until he was breathless. Lucifer had been there to remind him to breathe, his fingers combing through his hair gently after he had finally gained the control to do just that. Lucifer wasn’t there, though, so Michael closed his eyes tightly, swallowing thickly and trying not to think about it.

A click. Michael jumped, eyes opening and flicking to the door. _Lucifer_. He was back.

He shuffled so he wouldn’t get hit by the door as it opened. He watched it closely. It swung open to reveal his youngest brother, teeth chattering, eyes wet, hands blue from cold. Michael didn’t question it, didn’t let himself feel disappointed. He just pulled him in to sit next to him, closing the door with his foot. Gabriel sat in his lap, wrapping his arms around his neck as he leaned to sob into his shirt quietly. Michael rubbed his back mechanically, shushing him softly.

“Dad really did it,” Gabriel whispered. It was a statement, not a question. Michael nodded anyway.

“I saw him.”

Michael froze for a second before continuing to rub his back.

“Where?” he asked, voice just as quiet.

“Bus station. I gave him my ticket.”

Michael’s stomach dropped. “Your ticket?”

“He told me to go home.” Gabriel looked up at him, and Michael lifted a finger to gently still the trembling of his bottom lip. He sent a silent thank you to Lucifer for not taking Gabriel with him out of spite.

“Where was the ticket for?”

“California.”

Michael had blinked. California? He had been about to run away to California? Gabriel enjoyed warm weather, he supposed. Lucifer probably wouldn’t stay there for long. He knew Michael was going to Brown after the summer. Maybe he’d go up to New England. They could meet up, if their father didn’t change his mind.

“Why?” Michael asked him after several silent minutes. Why what, he didn’t know. Gabriel seemed to.

“I don’t like the fighting,” Gabriel had said, voice thick with more tears to come. He had curled back into Michael, and Michael had held him close. He wanted Lucifer to come knocking. He wanted to let him and they would laugh quietly about California before falling asleep near the door, Lucifer’s head resting on Michael’s shoulders and Michael’s arm resting around his, the other around Gabriel, holding him close.

When the clock told him it was a quarter to three, Michael locked the door using Gabriel’s key. He set him on the floor for a moment and then stood, picking him up. He walked up the stairs with some effort. Although he was short- even for eleven- and light enough, it was Lucifer who would gather him up and carry him to his room when he fell asleep in a place other than his bed.

He tucked him into bed after taking the small backpack from his shoulders. A quick rummage through made him beyond glad Lucifer had went to the same station. It was obvious it had been packed by an eleven year-old. He’d packed nothing but a hoodie, a bag of sweets, a chocolate bar, a bouncy ball, his Mario Brothers wallet, and his DS. Michael unpacked it all with a dry mouth and hoped Gabriel would forget about running away in the morning. He found a letter addressed to ‘Whoever goes through my room first,’ and pocketed it, kissed Gabriel’s forehead, and left.

“He’s gone, then?” came Raphael’s whisper from the shadows. Michael had jumped, turning to where his voice came from.

“Yes,” Michael had said. He paused. “For now.”

Raphael had snorted. “For now?” he repeated. “Forever, Michael. You know how stubborn dad is.”

He didn’t disagree with him. “You know who his favourite son is.”

“Was,” Raphael corrected. “I do the old man’s paperwork. Lucifer was meant to take on the business after he died.”

This wasn’t unexpected, but it still stung. _He_ was the oldest. _He_ was the one going to study business next year, whereas Lucifer’s plan was a vague ‘something to do with music, maybe.’

“Exactly,” Michael whispered anyway, ignoring the feeling of betrayal. If his father thought Lucifer was the best to take on the business, he wasn’t going to object. He’d just help him, when the time came. If the time came. “If he wants Lucifer to take it on-”

“Yeah, no,” Raphael had sighed. “That was changed two months back. The will’s been rewritten, Michael. You’re the new heir.”

“No,” Michael had said softly, heart sinking. Two months ago had seen him standing at his father’s shoulder at two in the morning, watching Lucifer come in through the door, drunk off his head and high as a kite. He hadn’t seemed to sense the alcohol-fuelled anger pouring off his father as he stumbled over to Michael, murmuring a hello and kissing his cheek before leaning against him heavily, eyes closing. That had made way for an argument- not so much an argument as Lucifer standing with his arms around Michael who had just stood there uncertainly, not sure of what to do as his father practically exploded. He’d discovered that night that his overtly religious father was, in fact, homophobic, and seemed to think that even hugging between two brothers meant one of them was gay. Michael had been frozen to where he stood as the spew of words came pouring out his father’s mouth, intending to wound his younger brother. Lucifer eventually peeled himself off Michael to tug at his collar, revealing a series of dark bruises dotted down his neck.

“You wanna know who gave me these?” he’d asked in a quiet slur. Their father’s face had darkened as he looked at his second-born son. Michael had closed his eyes. He didn’t want to know which of his brother’s so-called friends had given him those. It could have been any of them, because despite Lucifer insisting he hated them all, he seemed alright with going to their parties, drinking with them, kissing them- and doing a lot more than kissing, if his stories were to be believed. He would tell Michael the stories the following day, lying on his bed while Michael did homework, or filled out college applications, or just listened as Lucifer casually raised a finger to the teachings of the church with each new tale. Michael didn’t really mind that his brother was going against the teachings too much, though he still had the look of a good church-boy. He wore Lucifer’s cross constantly after he purchased a gold chain for it, like the one he had had all those years ago. Lucifer always raised an eyebrow when he saw the mixture of silver and gold, but said nothing.

“I don’t want to know the name of the filth you allowed to suck on my son’s neck tonight,” came the cold reply. That had gotten a snort.

“Sucked more than just my neck, dad,” Lucifer had said, and had been sent up to his room with a roared command that had woken Raphael and Gabriel. Michael had brought him breakfast the next morning after a few hours of uneasy sleep. He went into his room to find him lying on the floor in the same clothes, smelling of alcohol and weed but looking a lot more sober. He’d cast a doubtful look to the toast and orange juice Michael had brought, and Michael had sat by his head, combing his hair from his clammy forehead. He continued even when the hair was gone, Lucifer’s eyes closing like a contented cat’s.

“I was just kidding, you know,” Lucifer had said quietly after a while. “We wanted to see if using a vacuum really made it look like a hickey or not. I volunteered.”

Michael had snorted in disbelief. “How many times did you need to test that, exactly?”

“In theory? Once. Logic didn’t come into play. We found it funny.”

“Tell dad that, then,” he had advised softly. Lucifer had gripped the wrist combing through his hair, tangling his fingers with Michael’s.

“I just wanted to wind him up.”

Michael had sighed quietly, and tugged on his hand.

“Up,” he had commanded. “Eat.”

“Yes,” Raphael had whispered simply. “Your name’s on the will. Once dad kicks the bucket, all his business partners will be answering to you.”

And as time passed, it seemed like that would be coming true. As February drew to a close there was still no Lucifer. He wasn’t tracked down and brought home. March began, and Michael bowed his head during the gospel according to Luke when the story of the prodigal son was read. Gabriel had, too, and Michael saw a tear splashing down onto the kneeler below. He’d put an arm around his shoulders, thinking of how if Lucifer came back like the prodigal son, he wouldn’t be like the older brother in the parable. He’d welcome him back with open arms, too, giving him anything and everything he demanded in return for staying. Raphael, having laid down his medal of Saint Stephen and his serving alb long ago, stood straight-backed next to their father. He did not cry.

March passed. April came and went, and his father had been short in his answers to the school when they asked where he was. They stopped asking. Lucifer’s so-called friends stopped asking when they realised Michael wasn’t going to tell- that, or Lucifer had contacted them himself.

The whole of summer came and went. Michael had sat indoors on Raphael’s birthday, head in his hand a stolen bottle of whiskey sitting open next to him on Lucifer’s floor. He didn’t pour it into a glass or a cup, didn’t drink it the way he knew to drink whiskey- carefully, because it was liquid fire, and it demanded respect or you’d get your tongue burned. He drank like it was water instead, making for quick intoxication and a burning throat. Gabriel had joined him and asked for a sip. He had, of course, been refused.

Michael went to Brown in the fall. He didn’t hear from the brother he had tossed onto the street. He didn’t blame him. He also didn’t send him a text. He guessed Gabriel heard from him, judging by his sudden secretiveness over his phone when Michael came home for weekends. The hurt from that was dealt with at parties when he skipped over the beer and went straight for the vodka, or the whiskey- and in one stupid case, the seventy-five percent proof poitín that he’d accepted from one of the Irish students idiotically. He’d been left with a mouth that tasted of ashes and the worst hangover he’d ever had, heart sore from discussing Lucifer with the man-boy-child who had shared the bottle with him.

He scrolled through his old texts when he was drunk, looking at the brief conversations from months ago between him and Lucifer that didn’t consist of much more than requests to unlock the front door or hurry into the car to get to school, or to go downstairs to watch TV with the other, when they were feeling too lazy to just shout up the stairs. He reread them so many times he had them burned into his brain.

Autumn passed, Michael’s birthday with it. Lucifer’s three days after, and Michael drank a silent toast to him.

His phone buzzed on the twenty-third of December. He’d opened it without looking, eyebrows twitching with confusion until he saw the sender.

_How’s my big brother doing? Is Brown going alright?_

Lucifer. Michael had swallowed, barely aware of his father string at him expectantly across the table. A dinner with one of his more senior business partners who had just asked Michael the same question. Michael hesitated. Then he closed the app and locked the phone.

On Christmas Eve night he went into Lucifer’s room. Gabriel had beat him to it, curled up on the bed and sobbing quietly into the pillow. Michael had lain down next to him, rubbing his back and hushing him until they were both asleep.

On Christmas day it buzzed again, and Michael saw the sender before he opened it this time. He’d excused himself from the table and read it in the privacy of the hallway, Christmas cracker crown slipping over his eyes before he pushed it out of his eyes.

_Merry Christmas, asshat._

His thumbs had hovered over the keys uncertainly. But what he could say that could make any of it better? Apologies were as hollow as he was. It wouldn’t change a damn thing. He pocketed the phone and went back into the dining room, avoiding Gabriel’s eyes.

Now he avoided everyone’s eyes. Two days after Christmas, and he wasn’t lounging in pyjamas with his two remaining brothers, watching Christmas movies and finishing off chocolates. He was in a suit, standing behind his father. He got a few interested looks from the men sitting in front of him. They were probably wondering how two brothers could be so different that one was kicked out and the other sent to Brown, dressed up in a suit and brought to meetings. He didn’t pay attention, though he knew what a ‘great experience’ it was. He felt like a puppy being yanked around by a chain, dragged from place to place, too weak to protest, too weak to be able to breathe properly. He knew he must look like an overgrown child, standing with his shoulders slumped, posture uncorrected as he was out of his father’s line of vision. What a soft, stupid thing he had become. What a soft, stupid thing he was without Lucifer there to hold him up. Barely able to follow even his father's orders. Why that couldn't have been the case the only time it had mattered, that night he had fulfilled the one he really, really shouldn't have, Michael didn't know.

He could feel Joshua watching him closely. His uncle dressed in a suit, like they all did, but he didn’t seem to fit in it like the rest. It was perfectly tailored, of course. He made it look like just clothes, not a life sentence. Michael could imagine him in other clothes- maybe because he’d seen him in more casual attire, as his pastime was gardening, and he certainly didn’t wear a suit for that. He prayed he would be the same when he was older. He prayed this life wouldn't become him, wouldn't turn him into someone Lucifer didn't recognise. He'd stay soft and stupid if it meant Lucifer could still know him the way he had. The way he did.

He stayed standing behind his father when the meeting was over. Watched him sigh and run his hands through his hair before opening a drawer and taking out a bottle of whiskey and a glass. It looked like Michael had inherited more than just dark hair from his father, then. He snorted softly, and his father froze suddenly, turning his head slowly to look at Michael. From the look on his face, he’d forgotten he was there.

“You can go now, Michael,” he said. Michael dipped his head in acknowledgement before doing just that, feeling blood rushing from his head, making him feel dizzy. He loosened his tie the moment he was out the room, running his hand through his hair roughly to release the hair gel’s hold with a shaking sigh as he left the house through the back door, taking ragged breaths in the cold air. He faintly hoped Gabriel wouldn’t finish off the hazelnut chocolates as he walked in the direction of the woods that bordered their land, not sure of when he intended to turn back around. He just had to get out of there. Out of the meeting, the office. The house. Everything.

“Michael!”

He heard the slam of the back door. He didn’t turn as he heard footfalls in the icy grass as they jogged up to him, but walked quicker, feet stumbling on the ice. He paused briefly to take his shoes off, closing his eyes as the cold soaked through his socks.

He was seized by the arm and turned to meet the concerned brown eyes of Joshua.

“Hello, Uncle Joshua,” he said politely.

“Michael,” Joshua said simply. “Where are you going?”

“Breath of fresh air.”

He was given a doubtful look, but his arm was released. Michael swallowed, running his hand through his hair again and trying to flatten it. Joshua watched him silently for a while.

“He asked me to give you this.” He took a blue envelope from his suit pocket, handing it to Michael. Michael just blinked, looking down at it.

“When?”

“When I went to see him.”

Michael’s mouth fell open slightly. He wet his dried lips, turning the envelope over in his hands. If anyone in the family was going to find Lucifer, it was Joshua. He didn’t know why he was surprised. Joshua had always liked Lucifer, right from when he was a little boy with an interest in the rose garden. Lucifer had liked Joshua, because he was nice to him. He wasn’t going to reach out to their father for obvious reasons. Raphael and Gabriel were too young to be of any help. Michael was too useless. Joshua made sense.

“Where is he?”

“Michael…”

“I want to know.”

Joshua sighed, resting his hand on his forehead. Was that pity in his eyes?

“He’s in Georgia,” he said quietly. Michael’s face creased in confusion.

“Georgia?” he repeated blankly, putting the envelope safely in his suit jacket. “Why Georgia?”

“It’s cheap,” Joshua said tiredly. Michael looked down, swallowing. Of course the money Michael had put in his bag wasn’t enough for him to go long-term to somewhere expensive.

“And he’s okay?” Michael asked carefully.

“He has an apartment. A job. Two, actually.”

“Doing what?”

“Waiting tables in one. Playing the piano in a restaurant in the other.”

Michael gave a short, stiff nod. He wanted to find him and shake him by the shoulders. _Is this what you wanted? Is this so much better?_ Lucifer could have sat silently in meetings. He could have pretended that he was satisfied with that. Would it have killed him to just pretend? Just until Michael was the head of the family and he could do whatever the hell he wanted?

“I was meant to give it to you on Christmas,” Joshua said quietly. Michael’s jaw clenched, and he kept looking at the ground. “I forgot about it until I opened the card he got for me. He said yours was the most important.”

“The most?” Michael repeated, looking up at him. “Did Gabriel get one too?”

“And Raphael,” Joshua said with a nod. “Presents, though. Not cards.”

Raphael, too? That was oddly mature of Lucifer to do. Nothing like being kicked out to turn someone into an adult. His heart hurt. His little brother, out by himself. Waiting tables and playing the piano. Paying rent and sending gifts to his brothers for Christmas. Keeping up with bills, probably cooking his own meals. Maybe he’d cooked his own Christmas dinner. Maybe he’d eaten it all alone. If that was what it meant to be an adult, Michael was just a child in an adult’s clothes.

“Thank you, Uncle Joshua,” Michael said. Joshua’s face softened. He squeezed his shoulder lightly.

“Take care of yourself, Michael,” he said. “Get yourself inside. Warm up. Alright?”

Michael nodded mechanically. Joshua got his shoes for him, putting them back on his feet and turning him in the direction of the house.

He was greeted by Gabriel in the hallway, who took one look at his blank expression and took Michael’s cold hand in his little warm one, leading him upstairs. He didn’t ask why Michael’s socks were soaked when he sat Michael on his bed, kneeling at his feet to remove his shoes. Just took them off and replaced them with fuzzy reindeer ones.

After taking off his suit jacket and tie, Gabriel brushed through his hair gently with a comb. He left clean and folded pyjamas on the bed next to him before he bent to wrap his arms around him, resting his head on top of Michael’s. Michael wrapped his arms around him loosely, not holding him too hard. Gabriel probably expected him to start crying into his shoulder. He didn’t. He just sat, breathing, holding him. Gabriel left after placing a small kiss on the top of his head and telling him to come down after he was in the pyjamas. Michael didn’t move for a good few minutes. When he did it was to pick up his suit jacket and take out the envelope.

It was a birthday card for a ten year old. Lucifer had scribbled out the ‘1’ with a black marker, adding ‘Jesus’ on the end so it read ‘Happy 0th Birthday, Jesus.’ Michael stared at it for a long time, torn between mild amusement and concern at his easy blasphemy.

He opened the card. A small velvet pouch fell onto his lap.

 _Silver and gold don’t match, fool._ He’d written that in the same black marker, his handwriting large but neat, letters the same size. Pencilled in the bottom corner was another message. _Sorry about the card_ , he had written, his letters smaller and joined. Messier. _Birthday cards are cheaper than decent Christmas cards._

Michael’s heart sunk. So living in Georgia wasn’t just to help with bills, then. He really needed to live where it was cheaper.

He pressed the card to his lips, hands trembling. He wanted to get in his car and drive down to Georgia. When they had been younger, Lucifer had managed to half-convince him they had some psychic connection, insisting they were closer than most twins when Michael pointed out that only twins seemed to have that connection. He knew it was bull, but his mind sometimes began to drift to those thoughts. The times he’d felt a stab of pain when he was still in elementary school and later discovering Lucifer had fallen over and skinned his knee. The times when he had felt pangs of hunger at night and Lucifer would come in with midnight snacks. When they would be able to have a conversation entirely in looks. They’d tried to test it by the old ‘think of a word’ trick and had been discouraged by the results.

Since the night Michael had betrayed his brother he had spent quite some time alone. He’d spent quite some time closing his eyes and letting out a breath, trying to locate his brother in the silence of his heart, trying to will him to do the same, wherever he was. Sometimes Michael would feel a sudden almost-presence, a deep sadness tearing through him he didn’t think he was capable of in his state of numbness, the sensation of arms wrapping tightly around him and tears in his neck, short hair tickling his chin. He would keep his eyes tightly shut and cling to the feelings, even if they were probably nothing more than wishful thinking and sleep deprivation.

He wanted to go down to Georgia and let their imaginary psychic connection lead him to Lucifer’s door. He wanted to drag his brother to the car and drive him home, drive him away from having to worry about money and working and bills and sending presents through Joshua, because Michael didn’t hold his father up on a pedestal enough to believe for even a second that he was above throwing them in the bin the moment they showed up in the mailbox.

He missed him. He missed him. He missed him.

His shaking fingers opened the velvet pouch, tipping the contents into his palm. A chain. Silver and fine and cold. Michael knew. Immediately, he knew. Why Lucifer had had his chain on him the night he had been thrown out, Michael wasn’t sure.

He took his own chain off, slipping the crucifix from the end and looping Lucifer’s chain through it instead. He put it around his neck, eyes closing as he fastened the chain, the metal cold around his warm skin. After a moment’s silence he stood, slowly pulling on the pyjamas Gabriel had left for him.

Then it was like adrenaline had been shot into his veins. He snatched up the gold chain, stuffing it into the velvet pouch and grabbed the wallet he kept under his bed, filled with hundreds instead of twenties. Twenties were for the wallet with his driving license, the one he took outside. He folded a handful of the notes and packed them in with the chain, the pouch almost bursting from the strain. Then he was running downstairs, socks making him slip slightly on the smooth floors. He threw open the back door, clinging to the frame so he didn't step outside. Joshua was still there, looking at the ground thoughtfully as he did nothing but stand.

“Uncle Joshua!” he shouted, and his uncle looked up. Michael threw the pouch in his direction. He caught it, looking at him quizzically.

“Would you be able to get that to him?” Michael asked, Joshua taking a few steps towards him to hear his low voice. His forehead creased.

“I- yes, I can, but I’m not sure when I’m next-”

“New Year’s,” Michael said. Joshua blinked. “Please, make sure he’s not alone on New Year’s.”

He waited to be told he was one selfish fucker, bossing people around and getting them to do his will. He waited to be told that he was the one who shoved Lucifer out the door, and had no rights to make demands.

“Okay,” Joshua said softly. “I’ll go visit him for New Year’s.”

Michael let out a breath. “You promise?”

Joshua stepped back inside, pinching his cheek and giving him a small smile as he passed. “I promise. And I’ll give this to him.”

Michael followed him through the house, unable to believe his ears. “Thank you,” he finally managed to get out once Joshua had opened the front door.

“No problem.” His voice was quiet as he left, and Michael didn’t close the door until he had driven away, waving as he passed the door as he turned his electric car around in the driveway.

Gabriel came out to pull him into the sitting room, and Michael went willingly, sitting on the armchair with his legs crossed and feeling both incredibly young and incredibly old. Raphael did nothing but offer him the box of chocolates.

They weren’t watching Christmas movies. Gabriel had chosen an odd mix between the first two Godfather movies and the Lord of the Rings trilogy instead. Michael had exchanged a look with Raphael when Gabriel had announced that. It was better to concentrate on those movies, though, instead of Christmas ones, which all had a tendency to roll the lights onto family unity somehow. None of them wanted to dwell on that. They all had hurts from that night, after all. They all had regrets.

The only problem was that those movies were _long_. In the third bathroom break, Michael sent Lucifer a text.

_Thank you._

He didn’t get a reply.


	6. Chapter Six- Twenty-Two

The five stages of grief were denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and, finally, acceptance. They could be experienced in any order, and each stage could last for different amounts of time, at different intensities. Someone might experience the anger stage for several weeks in a low intensity, for example, and then experience bargaining for a few hours but with crippling strength. Grief was individual for each person.

That’s what the emergency grief councillor told Michael as he sat across from her with a closed-off expression in their first and last session. He didn’t ask for her help, nor did he want it or have the time for it- but Joshua thought it was necessary, apparently, because from the moment the maid screamed when she entered his father’s room to bring his breakfast up to him, everything changed.

His suit was no longer a representation of his wealth, his status, and his job. It became a general’s uniform, and he wore it as such as he pulled it on each morning. He wasn’t allowed to hole up in his room, take his meals alone, break down crying. The liquor cabinet was locked. He needed to concentrate.

He was no longer Michael, son of Charles, who sat in meetings with his shoulders rounded and his face turned to the floor. He was no longer an older brother, a good son. He had a mission now- the funeral of his father, which many of the men his father worked with offered to help him with, to ‘take the load off his shoulders.’ He refused them all, of course.

He didn’t need five stages of grief, five different ways to cry at night. He just needed the one stage, the tearless one. So he skipped right to the acceptance and ignored the rest. Ignored the concerned looks from his two remaining brothers, ignored the same look that he got from the businessmen when he didn’t cancel the meeting scheduled for the day after his father’s death, but instead sat in the seat designated for his father. He had a role to play, a family to lead, a business to run. He had no time to grieve. Not now.

And play his role he did- no longer the seemingly loyal lieutenant, but the general. He worked tirelessly from the moment he saw his father’s body, strewn across whiskey-and-vomit-soaked sheets. He called the family lawyers to help him make sense of the will left behind, and had Raphael speak with them afterwards- get a foot in the door, as one might say, seeing as he was set to begin law school after graduation. He’d felt a sense of satisfaction as Raphael showed him the business card he’d been handed after they had left. So far, so good.

Then he felt slight disgust at what he read. His father wanted to have his funeral in the cathedral, and be laid to rest there- miles from home. But they were his father’s wishes, and he figured it would be better for Raphael and Gabriel to not have to think of their father each time they looked at the chapel, which was practically at the end of their (admittedly long) driveway. So he organised it, and organised having his father’s name and dates added to the family’s gravestone there. The priest wanted the body buried in less than two weeks. Michael couldn’t really give a shit, so he’d agreed.

Organising the funeral was easy. Accepting words, cards, and gifts of condolences was tedious, but he managed to do it with the grim smile that was common on the faces of the bereaved-but-strong. He cleared out the freezer to fit in the dishes of soups and casseroles from the families of his colleagues, who were clearly dealing with the guilt of seeing ‘such a young man’ have a business, a family, and a funeral thrust on his shoulders at age twenty-two. It was easy to do that, and to give Raphael a stern look when he caught him glancing to the locked liquor cabinet.

The task that should have been the easiest of all was proving to be the most difficult. After the Day One, as he was coming to think of it, had passed in a series of actions- comforting the maid and sending her home early (with pay, of course), calling the doctor, comforting his brothers, talking with the doctor (‘yes, he’s had issues with drinking for quite some time now. We believe it was the stress, yes.’), and comforting his brothers- he finally lay down in his bed and picked his phone up. Opened the messaging app. Typed his brother’s name in the ‘contact’s name’ bar. Clicked on the profile. No photo, obviously. Just a name and a number. Clicked the ‘type your message here’ bar.

And then he froze. His thumbs hovered uncertainly over the keys. How was he meant to word it? ‘ _Hey, Luce. How’ve you been these past four years? Oh yeah, dad’s dead. Here’s the date of the funeral for your calendar_. _It’s Michael, by the way. Just in case you deleted my number._ ’ Should he be formal? Brief? Friendly? Should he _call_?

After a few moments of staring at the bright screen, he locked it slowly, throwing it across the bedroom to where it landed on the cushioned chair, and sunk back into his pillow, lying on his side. If he thought hard enough, he could almost imagine one of Lucifer’s cold hands pushing the hair back from his forehead, combing through it gently. He could hear the tut of mock-disappointment, the small, teasing flick to his forehead.

‘Grow up, Mickey,” he’d say, using the nickname just to annoy him, though his voice wouldn’t really be angry or cold. Teasing, like the flick. ‘I don’t bite.’

Though who knew. Maybe he had a Georgia accent now. Maybe he wasn’t even _in_ Georgia anymore. He could be the president of a small island for all Michael knew. Could have changed his name and number several times over, and he wouldn’t have a clue.

Michael went downstairs for breakfast the next morning still in his pyjamas with a bedhead, wondering if his army-style new approach had the expiration date of a day. Both Raphael and Gabriel had the same sloppy dress, and there was nothing on the business front until after lunch, so he counted himself lucky. When Gabriel asked how Lucifer was taking it, he froze, fork hovering above the scrambled eggs.

“Jesus,” Raphael had said, not missing a beat. “You haven’t told him yet.”

“I thought one of you would,” Michael said. One of the most blatant lies he’d told.

“He needs to know,” Raphael said, and Gabriel just looked down, disappointment in Michael clear as day. Michael concentrated on the day ahead, and went to sleep that night easily.

 He was woken at two in the morning by the sound that had become way, way too familiar in the past few years- the front door closing softly, quiet footsteps up the stairs to Gabriel’s room, a backpack zip being opened, the muffled quality suggesting he had the zip squeezed between his fingers to silence the sound.

Gabriel thought they didn’t know- thought that Michael would ever fall asleep without some part of him worrying whether his baby brother would be there in the morning or not. The longest he had ever been gone was three days, and between covering up his absence as illness to their father and making sure Raphael didn’t collapse into tears with every breath he took, all the while trying to track him down while running on two hours of sleep and sending emails excusing his absence from lectures, it was much more exhaustive than planning any funeral. He’d returned as he had left- during the night- with slumped shoulders and an envelope for Michael, which he’d pressed into his hands before hugging him wordlessly. Michael had sent him off to bed after realising he wasn’t going to get more than one or two words in response to his questions before opening the envelope. He’d expected a sorry letter, or maybe his ticket to get further away, given to Michael to avoid temptation- the runaway’s version of locking the liquor cabinet. But no. Torn paper, hastily scrawled words. _Take better fucking care of him._ Lucifer’s handwriting. He’d set the paper down with a bitter taste in his mouth. Like Lucifer had any right to comment on how Gabriel was being taken care of. Like it was Michael’s responsibility to do it. What did he want- for Gabriel to be chained to his bed each night to prevent him from slipping away? His main goal was to keep the habit hidden from his father, like he had tried and failed to do with Lucifer’s cigarette habit, and drinking habit, weed habit, rebelling-against-father habit. He didn’t want to have to force another brother out the house again.

But the bitterness wasn’t just for that. Gabriel, who’d been twelve at the time, was trusted with Lucifer’s location, while Michael had barely heard from him at all. That had hurt. From Gabriel’s deflated mood from after that running-away incident, he figured Lucifer had cut back on the contact with their youngest brother- and though Michael obviously didn’t like seeing him down, he found it more difficult than he would readily admit to muster up any sympathies. Gabriel’s phone still buzzed, and Michael knew he was still hearing from him, so he was still getting more contact than Michael was, anyway.

After hearing Gabriel’s bed creak as he lay down, Michael sat up and took his phone from beneath his pillow. Shot a text to Lucifer, barely caring how he worded it, and settled once more, thinking that he would reply in the morning.

His phone buzzed with the reply almost straight away. And thus began an overload of contact with the brother he hadn’t seen for four years.

It wasn’t sorrowful apologies, promises of a tearful reunion at the funeral that was in twelve days. It was short, sharp texts being darted at each other with barely any pause. Michael would stop replying from lunchtime to early evening, and wouldn’t get another reply until around one or two in the morning- which had made him worry that he was in a different time zone until he realised Lucifer was just making him wait the exact same time _he_ had waited for Michael’s reply. It was childish and petty- but so was the whole thing, in a way. Texts covered a range of topics, from the lack of contact in nearly a decade to how Michael had once caught him spitting into Raphael’s morning milk when they were eight, and from how Michael would never replace toilet paper rolls to how he’d chucked Lucifer onto the streets.

It spun Michael’s head. In every other circumstance in the twelve days that lead up to the funeral he was Michael, level-headed, calm. But the second he picked up the phone he became a mess of the emotional variety. He hated Lucifer, he missed him more than anything. He’d just been following orders, Lucifer had had it coming. He didn’t let Lucifer know how much he missed him, obviously. That would be painting himself neon and stepping onto the no-man’s land of their sudden war. He’d never been so conflicted, never felt like a walking, talking human representation of an oxymoron before.

His only comfort was that Lucifer seemed to be in the same position, though it came across in his texts, whereas Michael kept his carefully concealed. One moment he was deeply grieving their father, the next he was cursing him to the deepest levels of Hell. He hated Michael, and Michael was the only one he’d wanted to hear from. He was going to leave for the house that very morning, he wouldn’t come within a state of it even if he was paid. He wanted to pay his respects, he was going to turn up in his leather jacket and piss on the open grave. Michael called him a thug after that. Lucifer just called him a shit brother, and he didn’t really have an argument for that. They made a thousand deals, all as false and unrealistic as the next, and Michael wondered if this was a strange version of the bargaining stage of grief. He’d forgive Michael for everything if Michael let out a cheer when the coffin was lowered. He’d behave throughout the mass if he was allowed to dance on the grave. He’d come at all if Michael bought him a private jet. He’d be polite to everyone if he could throw them out of said private jet afterwards. He’d wear a suit and make his hair neat if Michael wore his leather jacket and messed his hair up. Michael agreed to all of them in a snappish manner, hoping he wouldn’t think he was being serious.

And it went on for _days._ Michael swung between snatching his phone the second it would buzz to just looking at it wearily. Above the self-conflict, the confusion, the hurt and the anger, his heart was just so, so tired. He just wanted Lucifer to be there. He didn’t want to have to be the strong one all the time, but as they came no closer to a decision as time passed, he feared he’d have to be.

Three days before the funeral, he was still awake at four in the morning again, grateful for having grief to excuse his tired eyes and face. Lucifer hit him with one of his many jabs, meant to wound Michael. And this one was about his failures as a big brother, to Lucifer for obvious reasons- but for Raphael and Gabriel as well. Raphael, he said, barely got any attention, being the relatively quiet third child. Gabriel’s running away was brought up, and Lucifer went in for the kill by mentioning one of the more recent ones, when Michael had had to drive for an hour and a half to reach the location Gabriel had given him in a tearful call, and had found him lying with a broken leg on the side of the freeway.

_He called me first. I had to stay on the phone with him for twenty minutes before I could come close to convincing him to call you and get taken home. Your shitty looking-after broke his leg._

Michael had stared at the text until his eyes had watered from lack of blinking. He knew that there wasn’t much logic in Lucifer’s blame-placing, and that he was just looking to hurt him. A part of him knew he deserved it, too. He’d hurt Lucifer more. He knew that, but it didn’t stop his head and his heart with filling with the mix of emotions becoming all too familiar. Fist-clenching anger, heart-tearing sorrow, mouth-curling bitterness. Add in the loneliness that had haunted him since he’d had to push Lucifer out the door, the undying happiness at being in contact with him again, and you had a shaky and slightly sad Michael, looking at the message blankly. It could make him do one of two things- wait too long to reply and feel empty inside, or carry on riding the waves of uncertainty and let it type a message for him, click send and not think of the consequences.

He took the second option.

_You getting yourself kicked out broke his heart._

He shoved his phone under the pillow and shut his eyes, trying to will himself to sleep.

Four and half hours later he was awake again and not happy about it. He checked his phone, and his stomach dropped.

No reply.

He checked his phone constantly throughout the day, even turning it off and on again in case something was up with it. Had Gabriel send him a text to make sure it wasn’t anything to do with the reception. But no. Lucifer just wasn’t replying.

Once one a.m. rolled around, Michael opened up the messages. He refused to let himself read through them, refused to let guilt make him text out a heartfelt apology. Again- neon, no-man’s land. He simply sent a time and the date. Lucifer already knew the address- he’d sent a spew of insults about their deceased father and his ‘lack of loyalty to the local parish,’ and the way he valued style over the things close to his heart and home. Michael hadn’t disagreed.

He slightly regretted his plan of action when the ‘big day’ finally rolled around. He’d given the date for the funeral, not the wake, which he’d had to handle alone.

Like a grim wedding, the attendees were gathered outside, waiting for the body. Michael had managed to get Gabriel into a suit and have his hair combed neatly, which made him look a lot older than his young face suggested. He still looked short, so at least there was that. Raphael just looked solemn and unaffected by the cold winds that were blowing. The sky was grey. Michael hoped it wouldn’t rain.

None of them mentioned the missing brother. No one came up to the three of them. They were allowed to stand apart from everyone in peace. They were the sons of the dead, after all. Orphaned and grieving.

Everything was very quiet. Latecomers came up to whisper to the people they knew in the small crowd, to glance at the three young boys- or men, Michael thought grimly, squeezing Gabriel’s shoulder. Fourteen and an orphan already. It shouldn’t have been this way for him.

Joshua, who was taking as much responsibility as Michael would allow to be taken from himself, approached them, phone in hand. “The hearse is stuck in traffic,” he said. “Shouldn’t be more than twenty minutes.”

Raphael sighed before finally dropping his shoulders, taking his little brother’s hand in his own and rubbing them to warm them up.

“Twenty?” Michael repeated. Joshua nodded. Michael glanced to the six hired pallbearers. Bit of an odd request, Michael knew, to have strangers carry his coffin instead of his sons, or one of his own brothers or many cousins. But a dead man’s wishes should be fulfilled, so hire them he had.

“Tell everyone else, please, Joshua,” Michael said. “Maybe get them to talk a bit. It’s like a damn fune-” he cut himself off before he could finish the word. He swallowed, and went to rephrase it. Joshua just nodded in understanding.

“I’ve got it,” Joshua said. He clapped him on the shoulder- not too hard, of course, because he seemed to hold the belief Michael would snap under the slightest bit of pressure- and left them.

There were a few tense moments of more of the mournful silence. Then a few murmurs started, and soon the crowd was talking. Michael just sighed in relief.

“That was a close one, Michael,” Raphael murmured. Gabriel nodded in agreement, but both of them were smiling slightly. There was a pause between the three brothers, all of them trying to test the waters without actually dipping their feet in. If one of them suddenly began to howl, the other two would feel obligated to show similar levels of distress. But Michael could see it on their faces- peaky and tired, like his was- that they weren’t going to do that. They could mourn their father alone. No need to make everyone there feel pity for them.

His hands twitched to remove Gabriel’s cold hand from Raphael’s. Something he’d picked up from his father, no doubt. Lucifer’s hands were often cold, too, and many a time had Michael been taken by the shoulders and brought a step or two from Lucifer to stop his attempts to warm his brother up. He’d done it a few times to Raphael and Gabriel, usually when their father wasn’t there to do it himself. He’d never personally seen what was wrong with it. It had just saddened him to watch himself force Raphael and Gabriel apart the way it had been done to him and Lucifer.

“Don’t start getting the giggles now,” Michael said, and took Gabriel’s other hand. Why he didn’t just carry gloves was something Michael would never be able to figure out. “You can’t start laughing during the mass.”

“This is coming from you?” Raphael asked, raising a dark eyebrow. “You once got snubbed at in the sign of peace for laughing when the person in front missed the kneeler. Remember that?”

“They made a funny noise,” Michael said in weak protest, before a match was held to a faint memory in the back of his mind, and he turned on his brother with glittering eyes. “ _You’re_ the one who got Father Murphy to ask dad to teach you about not laughing during mass. Remember _that_?”

“I don’t remember that,” Gabriel said.

“That’s because Michael’s reaching, Gabe,” Raphael said, shaking his head at him in mock-disappointment. “It was over five years ago. You would have laughed, too.”

“Why? What happened?”

“A person dropped their communion-”

“An _old_ person,” Michael interrupted. “Probably had arthritis.”

“-And they, Father Murphy, and the deacon all reached down for it at the same time, and their heads-” he let go of Gabriel’s hand for a moment to knock two fists together. He took it again once he’d finished his demonstration, sniggering to himself.

“How do you remember it so well if it was over five years ago?” Gabriel asked curiously.

“I was a server at the time, so I was up-close and personal with it,” Raphael said. “And it was fucking funny.”

“Language,” Michael said without much force.

“Well shit,” Gabriel said. “The devil’s dead.”

Michael glanced at him, immediately recognising the phrase, though it had been years since he’d heard it. It had been popular with an old relative of theirs, one of the ones from Ireland, and from what he’d been able to gather from the context, it was a less gentle way of saying ‘well I never!’ He was surprised Gabriel was able to remember that and not Father Murphy’s visit about Raphael’s behaviour in church. He went to respond about how he was allowed to tell them off for swearing ‘because I’m the fucking oldest, obviously.’ Then he heard who he’d been talking to.

“Is there room for me in this little prayer circle?” Lucifer asked, and Michael let go of Gabriel’s hand, breath catching in his throat. Lucifer tilted his head at him a bit, and smirked.

“What?” he said, and it was Lucifer, it was _Lucifer_ , for all the world looking like the Lucifer Michael had known. Older, obviously, and without the I-have-more-money-than-I-could-ever-spend edge to his smile. A bit rougher round the edges, face and body thinner than Michael remembered- but it was Lucifer. “Are we going to save the hand-holding for the Our Father instead?”

“What hell-church have you been attending?” Raphael asked. “No hand-holding allowed in traditional masses, you fucking heretic.”

Michael winced, waiting for the heated response. Lucifer just chuckled instead, and patted his head in a way that told Michael they had become closer in the past four years than they had been in the fourteen before it.

“Whatever,” Lucifer said, still smiling. Michael couldn’t look away from him. He was in a _suit_ , for crying out loud- a charcoal-coloured one, a black tie, his hair combed neat and gelled down. Like Michael’s. And it wasn’t a cheap suit either. It was well-made, obviously tailored, and a three-piece, not just a jacket and trousers. He even had neatly laced oxfords on his feet. No tattoos were peeking from under the shirt, no piercings on his face- nothing to suggest he was anything but a fellow ‘good son’ of their father’s. Michael knew how much he’d hated dressing formally as kids, how much ties choked him and suits restricted him, how much he hated the texture and feeling of hair-gel. Forget the neon and no-man’s land. This was coming unarmed into enemy trenches with a white flag and a target across his heart. Michael was holding a sword to it, and one wrong move could ruin it. Ruin everything.

“Lucifer,” he said simply. Lucifer raised an eyebrow at him.

“That’s my name, yes,” he said. He didn’t demand a hug in front of all the men Michael saw in business lunches. Didn’t demand an apology. Didn’t demand anything. He gave him a polite nod, and then stumbled back as Gabriel threw himself at him.

“Jesus, you’ve grown,” he laughed as he wrapped his arms around him. “Well, not much. Still. You’re going to wrinkle my shirt.”

“Missed you,” Gabriel muttered, pulling back. Lucifer ruffled his hair fondly, before catching Michael’s eye and quickly combing it again.

“We all did,” Raphael added, and what a golden opportunity what was for him to take the sword and drive it through Michael instead. He waved it off.

“Time for all that later,” he said casually, and Michael nearly fainted in gratitude. The hearse pulled up and he finished with making Gabriel’s hair sufficiently neat again. The low-level noise behind them came to a stop as the coffin was carried out, and Michael knew paying respects was only a small part of it. Very few people knew of the details surrounding Lucifer’s sudden and long absence from anything to do with the family- excluding the minimum contact with his brothers, and Joshua, to some extent. Still, near enough everyone knew that his father had four sons, not three, and Lucifer’s presence clearly sparked interest.

Lucifer didn’t seem to pay them much mind. Like Michael and their other two brothers, he bowed his head respectfully as the coffin passed, set down just in front of the cathedral. The priest stepped from where he had been talking to Joshua to stand beside the coffin. Michael didn’t catch the words he said. They got whipped away on the winds. He didn’t need to hear him. He just wanted it all over with.

Lucifer poked him in the back lightly when the solemn pallbearers began to wheel it in after the priest. Michael blinked, looking at the crowd uncertainly. They weren’t moving, they just watched him- oh. Right. He began to follow the coffin, making his face blank and unreadable.

Lucifer was behind him, right at his shoulder, and he had never felt so glad in all his life that he was there.

The funeral passed, albeit slowly. His brothers followed him into the very front pew, genuflecting to the tabernacle with straight faces. Lucifer sat next him, and Michael concentrated on the faint smell of his cologne, and fingers that picked anxiously at neatly cut nails, instead of the photograph of his father on the coffin. A chorus of Seinn Alleluia was sang instead of the usual Alleluia when it came to the gospel. He barely listened to it, or the readings before, and just about murmured his responses. When the creed came about, he got halfway through before trailing off, realising he couldn’t remember it. They read the Apostles’ Creed at the chapel, and it had been a long time since he had said the Nicene one, which was significantly longer and wordier. Lucifer’s elbow pressed into his side, subtle and small, and he held the prayer card he was holding higher so Michael could read it.

He didn’t dig his nails into Michael’s hand when it came to the sign of peace. He didn’t chew on the communion, and didn’t snigger at the warbles of Amazing Grace when the mass was over, the coffin blessed. Michael faintly wondered if choosing Amazing Grace was his father’s last and small salute to the person he had been in the picture he and Lucifer had found so long ago- the minimal heresy of the hymn not slipping past Michael as he silently looked at the words. He never sang during mass. By the end of the hymn, he figured he was overestimating the amount of thought his father had put into the hymn choices. It was a common funeral hymn, after all.

He had to lead the congregation out of the cathedral, giving the hands that people held out to him as he passed as small squeeze. He could see from a glance over his shoulder that people were doing the same to his brothers, too.

A small altar server was standing at the plot, a mound of earth next to her. She looked down nervously at the crowd approaching her, and stepped aside to let Michael stand near the edge before hurrying to the priest’s side.

“Rookie,” Raphael murmured softly as she fumbled with the chains of the thurible, fingers shaking with the cold- and nerves, probably. Gabriel nudged him lightly.

They carried his father out on their shoulders. It was only when the coffin was being lowered that it hit him.

His father was dead.

He cleared his throat quietly, turning his eyes to the skies instead to concentrate on keeping his self-control steady. He felt Lucifer’s eyes on him, though his head didn’t turn. A sudden and foreign fear struck Michael. A hug or a kind word of reassurance could set him off, and Lucifer knew it. He had the ability to have Michael howling like a child in front of men he had to draw up a contract negotiation with the following Tuesday. What a small but satisfying revenge that could be for Lucifer.

He felt a hand on his shoulder instead, light, though its presence sure and there. Lucifer squeezed his shoulder gently, and Michael winced, turning to mutter for him to let go. For all the kind words of the men he worked with, they would all swoop down like vultures the second they sensed any weakness, ready to exploit it for their own means. But when he met Lucifer’s eyes, he felt the words leave him. Lucifer just looked back at him silently, and Michael gave him the smallest and briefest of smiles. He acknowledged it with a nod, and Michael turned back to where the priest was waving the thurible over the lowered coffin.

The hand only left his shoulder when the bucket of dirt was passed around and the four of them each took a handful, alongside the many, many relatives. The priest nodded to him, and Michael took a step closer to the grave, looking at the thick grey smoke curling from the silver thurible instead of the coffin below. He released his handful, and it sprinkled from his hands, some of the soil getting caught in the lines of his palm. Michael looked back at the priest, who gave another nod of approval, before he stepped back.

Once the handfuls of dirt had been dropped onto the coffin, men with shovels shifted where they stood, a little way off. The crowd began to disperse, some people coming up to shake Michael’s dirtied hand and say a few words about the ‘lovely ceremony.’ Like there could be anything lovely about burying his father. This wasn’t voiced, of course. Michael accepted the words with nods and small words of his own, about how he was grateful they were there.

The cars began to head to their house, where Michael had stupidly said he would hold the funeral reception. Joshua had thankfully taken the brunt of the responsibility from his shoulders, so he hadn’t had to decide on what there would be to eat and drink. He would have to hear more of the ‘kind words’ though, and be expected to be the host of the party. His fingers were shaking- maybe due to the cold, not the nerves, but he still didn’t want to have to go and be… well. Be his father.

“Did you bring a car?” Michael asked Lucifer, voice quiet enough that Lucifer had to lean in to hear him. He nodded, and so did Michael.

“Good. And you’re staying for the funeral reception?”

“If you want me there.”

“I do,” Michael said quietly. Then, “Raphael, Gabriel.” This he said more loudly, and Gabriel turned from where his cheek was being pinched by an old woman that bore a distant relationship to them.

“Yes?” Raphael said, standing up straight, ready to take his orders.

“You two go with Uncle Joshua back to the house.”

Raphael and Gabriel exchanged a look at this, probably wondering if Michael was going to loosen his tie and challenge Lucifer to a fight the moment they were alone. Strictly open-handed palms instead of punches, and nowhere above the neck, of course. Couldn’t have anyone knowing.

“…Okay,” Raphael said after a while, and tugged Gabriel away. Lucifer watched him cautiously, probably thinking the same as they did.

“Lucifer, you come with me,” Michael said, still in the army-commander tone, though it was only Lucifer who heard it. Nothing like being shaken by a funeral to make you revert back into an order-barking toy soldier of a person. But Lucifer didn’t snort at him or raise an eyebrow in defiance. He nodded silently.

“Where are we going?”

“Away,” was Michael’s simple response. He wanted to find somewhere to stand alone with his brother. Not to cry- he knew that if he started, he would probably never stop. He just wanted to be able to spend a few minutes not being Michael, son of Charles, head of the family. He just wanted to be… Michael.

He led them past the rest of the people, taking long strides with Lucifer following behind until they had reached behind the cathedral. It wasn’t the chapel- the stones were darker, the wall taller, wider, colder- but it was good enough to fulfil their old tradition.

He leaned his head back, wishing he had a cigarette. He’d had one twice in his whole life, and hadn’t liked it either times, but it felt like it would be appropriate for trying to destress himself for a few minutes at least. He doubted Lucifer would have any in his suit pocket. Not when he was clearly trying so hard to look non-defiant.

“How was it for you?” Michael asked after a stretched-out silence. He cast his eyes to his brother, who was tracing the cement lines in the grey stones with his fingernail thoughtfully.

“Odd.” Lucifer looked up at him. “And I mean really odd.” He stopped, and Michael couldn’t help but feel disappointed. Lucifer hadn’t been as affected as he had- and this wasn’t about the Sistine chapel’s importance, or whether each member of a family had to join the family business. This was their father, their _father_ , one of the two people responsible for bringing them into the world, bringing them into existence _together._ And Lucifer didn’t care. Lucifer couldn’t see past the fact that he’d later brought them apart. Michael’s heart sank slowly, and he silently berated himself for thinking that after four years apart, he and Lucifer would still be two sides of the same coin- different, but the same in the ways that counted.

Then Lucifer let out a small sigh, and the pain that was brutally present in it was as clear as day.

“I wanted him alive,” he said quietly. “I wanted him alive, just for a few more minutes. Just to say goodbye. No, not even that. Just to... say I'm sorry. That I love him." Lucifer's mouth mashed into a line, and he looked to the ground. "But now he’s buried, so it’s real, and I…” his voice trailed away, and Michael gave a single, long nod of understanding. It was clear he wanted to say more, but they both had the silent and mutual understanding that today was not going to be a day of crying. He didn’t want Lucifer to be upset. It didn’t make him happy, seeing him in pain, but… Well, it gave him hope. It gave him hope.

“What about you?”

Michael opened his mouth to respond. His throat seemed to close up, and all that came out was a small noise. “I…” he said, voice strained and choked. He could feel Lucifer’s eyes on him, but he avoided meeting his gaze with his own. “I can’t talk,” he managed, and Lucifer’s hand came to his shoulder again. Michael closed his eyes, anchoring himself to it. Lucifer was here. Right here.

“I’m sorry about Gabriel,” Michael said, voice small and close to tears as he continued to torture himself. “I should have- I should be-”

“I didn’t mean what I said,” Lucifer said quickly, and turned Michael’s head to look at him. His blue eyes were solemn. Serious. “Of course it wasn’t you. He broke his leg because he wasn’t quick enough at crossing the road-”

“But the running away,” Michael interrupted. “All of it. He wouldn’t be running away if you were there. I can’t be- it’s my fault-”

“No,” Lucifer said, continuing their dance of letting the other get halfway through speaking before cutting them off. “Don’t, alright? Just… don’t. It wasn’t you. It was dad. And me,” he added, casting a guilty look in the direction of the graveyard. “Dad and me.”

“And me. I was the one who-”

“Had orders,” Lucifer said calmly. “Dad gave you orders. You carried them out. That’s not a crime.”

“It was,” Michael said, and god, this conversation shouldn’t be had behind a cathedral in suits whilst being painfully sober. This was a late-night conversation that should be had in voices that were quiet simply because there was no need to be any louder, spoken with a bottle of whiskey being passed between them, drinking it and ignoring the fact it was fire made liquid. “It was, I had the option of not obeying. I could have refused.”

“Yes,” Lucifer said. “You could have. And he would have done it himself- or gotten Raphael to do it instead. Then we both would have been kicked out.”

“Then we would have been together,” Michael said, and his heart hurt with the thought of it. It had been something he would barely allow himself to dwell on, his mind pausing on it for a few seconds at a time before he’d roll over and try to sleep, or shake his head to dismiss the thought. It was too painful to think of for too long because of how real it could have been. The two of them, out in the streets, no one able to tell them what to do. They’d have to answer to no one.

From the look on Lucifer’s face, this wasn’t the first time that idea had been presented to him, either.

“Maybe,” he said. “And then who would Raphael and Gabriel have then?”

“It wouldn’t make a whole lot of difference to what _did_ happen. They barely had me-”

“No,” Lucifer said fiercely. “No, they did have you. They did. You were there for them, constantly, because I couldn’t be. And we’re together again now, aren’t we?” His eyes searched Michael’s. “What happened, happened. We can’t change it. Four years… but now we’re together.” Michael could see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed nervously. He was aware that his facial expression was blank in a way that could be perceived as apathetic, when really, he was anything but.

“Yes,” Michael agreed quietly after several long seconds. There were a few more as he wondered whether he could do as Lucifer had before, and pass through the no-man’s land that had come between them, stripped of his weapons and pride.

“Stay.”

It turned out he was able to do that, then.

Lucifer was quiet for far too long. Michael opened his mouth to retract the offer, or add ‘tonight,’ and make it sound like he had just been thinking of the short-term.

“After today?” Lucifer asked carefully, in a way that made it sound like ‘for good?’

Michael nodded.

He wondered whether Lucifer would just shrug and grudgingly agree. But it was Lucifer, the brother he’d missed like he’d miss his heart if that left him, too. And Lucifer was Lucifer, so he was pulled into a hug instead. It was one of the few hugs in four long years without him patting the other person’s back and waiting for it to be over. He clung to him, squeezing his eyes tight shut. He wanted to stop time forever in that moment, even though it was cold outside and the clouds were threatening rain. It was better than a ‘yes,’ it was better than getting him to sign a contract detailing the conditions of him staying. He had his brother again, and not some crueller, harsher version, either.

"I'm sorry," Lucifer whispered, and Michael just held him closer. "I'm sorry he made you grow up too fast. I'm sorry I didn't understand."

Michael didn't say anything in return.Lucifer knew what he meant when he let out a shaking breath, burying his head into his brother's shoulder.

When he pulled back, he gave Lucifer a smile. Lucifer had an eyebrow raised, looking at his neck.

“You still wear that? Or did you just not want to offend me?”

“Wear wha- oh.” He realised what Lucifer was talking about. He touched the silver chain lightly, the cold metal of the cross shifting on his skin. “Yes, I barely take it off.” He looked oddly incomplete without it on. The fact it was essentially Lucifer’s cross, Lucifer’s chain, often slipped his mind. It had just become a part of him now.

Lucifer was shaking his head, smiling slightly, and Michael thought he was being mocked until he tilted his neck, lifting out the gold chain to show Michael.

“Seriously?” Michael said, unable to stop a grin from spreading across his face as he reached for it. He stared in silent disbelief as he pulled the small gold cross out. “No way. Didn’t I give that to you when we were, like, _twelve?_ ”

“I was thirteen. You were fourteen.”

“And you kept it?” Michael asked, letting it drop back onto his skin. “That was almost a decade ago.”

“I gave you that cross six years ago,” Lucifer pointed out.

“Touché. I thought you weren’t religious, though.”

Lucifer snorted, putting it back so it was hidden by his shirt. “I don’t wear it for Jesus.”

Michael blinked at him, but didn’t ask for clarification. He gave him a cautious smile instead, which was readily returned. Michael sighed quietly.

“Well,” he said. “I suppose we can’t dawdle for much longer.”

“Time to face the music,” Lucifer agreed.

This time it was Michael who was being led. He’d parked some way away, and they both dipped their heads slightly as rain began to fall. His car wasn’t an expensive one, which wasn’t unexpected, seeing as he had to provide for himself. It didn’t look like it was about to fall apart, and he kept it clean and smelling nice inside, so Michael didn’t care.

He noticed the leather jacket on the back seat when he was buckling his seatbelt. He turned to Lucifer with a raised eyebrow, a smile.

“I didn’t think we were being serious about the deals,” he said, and Lucifer turned to look at what he meant.

“What? Oh. No, it’s not for that. I keep it in the car,” he explained. “In case I forget it at home and it rains, or something.”

There was another pause as Michael looked at it, before shrugging. “Well, go on, then. I’m not getting you a private jet, and you didn’t dance on the grave.”

“You also didn’t cheer when it got lowered down,” Lucifer pointed out, and Michael grinned.

“Exactly. So go on.”

“What?” Lucifer said, looking confused. Michael just nodded at the jacket, and he spun to look at it.

“You… you _want_ to wear it?”

“No. But I did promise. Might as well keep at least one of the promises.”

Lucifer looked at him silently before shrugging, murmuring “alright, then,” as he reached for it, passing it to Michael as he took off the suit jacket.

He slid it on, nose assaulted by the smell of leather and cigarettes and _Lucifer_ , and he felt a little dizzy. He looked to where Lucifer sat with an unreadable expression, watching him.

“How’s it look?” he asked, rubbing the sleeve with his thumb. It felt softer than he had imagined it to.

“You said you’d mess your hair up.”

“I did,” Michael agreed. “It’s gelled, though, so-” but Lucifer was leaning across, pushing a hand roughly through his hair before Michael could stop him. He gaped at him in shock, turning the rear-view mirror to look at his hair. He’d broken the gel’s hold, the little shit, and it stuck up unevenly. God, what he must look like now, wearing the jacket on his back and his hair all over the place. He turned to Lucifer, who was smirking at him, relaxed back in his seat.

“Fucker,” Michael said playfully, and moved out of his seat in the way a cat pounced. His leg hit the gearstick, and it hurt a little, but he was too busy messing up Lucifer’s hair in return to pay it any mind. He had no idea how Lucifer had done it in one sweep, because it was taking him several run-throughs to get the gel to break. Lucifer shook his head the whole time, trying to sink back into the seat and turning his face away, though he was laughing, and Michael was laughing, too. Once he was satisfied, he turned Lucifer’s head so he was facing him, and smirked at the sight of his equally messy hair.

“There,” Michael said, lips curling up a little evilly. “Now we match.”

Something in Lucifer’s face changed. He tried to figure out what it was- maybe it was because Michael was in his jacket and Lucifer was in a suit, maybe it was because this was the most child-like thing they had done in years, maybe it was because this was the first time they had _seen_ each other in years, maybe it was because Michael had fucked up his hair. Maybe it was because they were laughing on the day they buried their father. He didn’t have time to ask him, though; didn’t have time to figure out the look on his face, because then his hands darted out and gripped the jacket collar and pulled him in and he was kissing him, Lucifer was kissing him, hands tight on the jacket as he kissed him like Michael was air and Lucifer was drowning.

It was wrong, it was so wrong, it was sinful in the way that was too much for a confessional to hold, too sinful to be forgiven, and Michael was kissing him back anyway, because he was air and Lucifer was drowning and he was warmth and Lucifer was freezing and he was life and Lucifer was dying. Then he was pulling back, and Lucifer looked confused, his lips red and cheeks pink and hair even messier, because at some point Michael’s hands had risen up to grip at it. His eyes were almost completely black, the blue nothing more than a thin ring, so thin Michael wasn’t sure if it was truly there, and Michael drowned in the darkness but he found a way to breathe.

“Lucifer,” he said, and Lucifer just looked at him wordlessly, hands still on the jacket, even though Michael’s had moved from his hair to his shoulders. “This is wrong,” he said, and Lucifer just looked at him wordlessly, hands still gripping the jacket, even though Michael’s had moved off Lucifer completely. “We can’t,” he said, and Lucifer just looked at him wordlessly, hands holding tight to the jacket, even though Michael’s had moved to pry his hands from the jacket, tugging at them gently, and Lucifer just watched him with wide eyes. He stopped trying, and looked back at his little brother, guilt filling up his heart, pouring into his blood and running beneath his skin. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and Lucifer’s hands let go like the jacket had been set aflame.

“Lucifer,” he said.

“Forget it,” Lucifer said. Michael slid back into his own seat.

“Lucifer,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

“Jesus, Michael,” Lucifer said, and he pushed his palms into his eyes, elbows resting on the wheel, while Michael bit back another sorry and a reminder to keep the commandments. “I said forget it, okay?”

He was twenty-one and sitting in his car. He was twenty-one and wearing a suit. Michael saw a little boy, standing in his doorway at night in pyjamas, lip trembling as he made his way over to Michael’s bed, sitting on the edge of it.

_Michael, I miss mom._

Seven. Add three.

_Michael, I broke Raphael’s toy and it looks like I meant to._

Ten. Add three.

_Michael, I don’t want to join the family business._

Thirteen. Add three.

_Michael, I don’t think dad loves me anymore._

Sixteen.

Then silence.

Add four. Four years which was nearly half a decade, a twenty-fifth of a century, nothing in the face of infinity, an eternity for them both.

_Michael, I think I love you too much._

Twenty-one.

But this wasn’t confessed in the safety of Michael’s room. This wasn’t even said aloud.

Lucifer said nothing. Michael took off the jacket and handed it to him. He didn’t tell him to keep it. He threw it into the back seat instead.

Michael didn’t try to talk, didn’t try to get him to listen to more of his apologies. He didn’t want to hear them. He didn’t want to hear anything, and that was easy to give. In return, Lucifer stayed silent as Michael attempted to smooth down his hair, putting his hand flat on his head and hoping it would heat the gel up, make it hold his hair in place again. It didn’t. He didn’t try reaching across to smooth Lucifer’s hair, even though was all over the place, and with the combination of his red lips it was obvious he’d been kissed. Lucifer raked a hand through it once, angrily, when they came to a red light (and it flattened, how the hell did he do that) and Michael closed his eyes, swallowing.

Now was not the time to mention it had only been his third kiss. The first had been with a dark-haired boy from another school, and he had tasted like whiskey and guilt. That had been when he was seventeen. The sin had risen to his lips in his next confession only to die. He told himself it wasn’t a sin, not really, because it had only been a kiss.

 Still, he was Catholic guilt incarnate, as Joshua had said all those years ago, and he had found his absolution less than a week later on the lips of a girl who sat behind him in chemistry. She had hair the colour of fire and eyes the colour of night and she had tasted like honey and sadness and phantom whiskey. She’d told him a few moments before that she had had a massive crush on him for two years. He had been drinking, but not drunk. She’d smiled at him the next time he had walked into chemistry. He had pretended not to see.

They pulled up on the road outside the house, and the driveway was pretty full. Lucifer parked outside the chapel, the first indication he wasn’t going to stay, because he knew as well as Michael did that there was a garage behind the house that could hold half the cars in the driveway. He was still silent, staring at his hands on the steering wheel.

“Don’t go.” Michael spoke quietly. He meant it. He still loved his brother beyond belief. It was selfish of him, it was thoughtless of him, but he needed him by his side. Lucifer said nothing.

“Gabriel needs you-”

“Shut up,” Lucifer snapped, and Michael blinked. “Shut _up_ , okay? Jesus, can’t you go ten minutes without hearing your own voice?”

He didn’t point out that he had gone forty-eight minutes without speaking on the drive up.

“If you’re going to stay-”

“I’m not,” and Michael flinched like he had been slapped. Lucifer continued anyway. “I’m staying here for twenty minutes, maybe half an hour. Then I’m leaving.”

There was another silence again. Michael kept his eyes on him.

“I don’t want you to go.” Michael spoke quietly. He meant it. He still loved his brother beyond belief. It was selfish of him, it was thoughtless of him, but he needed him by his side. Lucifer spoke.

“Life’s not about getting what you want.”

Michael bowed his head as though in prayer.

“I said forget it, Michael,” Lucifer said, because he’s Lucifer and Michael’s Michael, and he knows what Michael’s thinking, and it was drowning men who best knew the air, freezing men who best knew the warmth, dying men who best knew life. They looked at each other, and Michael felt his heart break into half a million pieces for him, because air wanted to be drawn into the lungs of drowning men, warmth wanted to spread over freezing men, life wanted to cling to dying men and keep them there. But they couldn’t. Michael felt his jaw clench, his eyes heat up, and Lucifer’s pupils were the pricks of a needle surrounded by a sea of blue. Michael drowned in them, but he found a way to breathe.

“So forget it, alright? It was stupid, and I’m sorry.”

Michael made a small noise as Lucifer climbed out the car without another word. He scrambled out the car, looking both ways before following him across the road. They didn’t mention it on the walk up to the house. They didn’t mention it in the moment they were left alone, Gabriel tearing himself away from Lucifer to find Raphael so the four brothers could be together, like before. Michael drowned in the unspoken words, in the clench of Lucifer’s jaw, in the look he had in his eyes. Michael drowned, he drowned, he drowned, but he found a way to breathe. They didn’t mention it when, twenty-four minutes later, Lucifer said his last goodbyes. He hugged Raphael. He ruffled Gabriel’s hair and leaned down to whisper something in his ear that made Gabriel cling him in a tight hug. He didn’t even look at Michael. He didn’t slam the door as he left for the last time.

They never mentioned it again. Because Michael never heard from him again.

 


	7. Chapter Seven- Twenty-Five

In hindsight, he hadn’t seen it coming.

Once, when Michael was eleven and Lucifer was ten, he’d been in his bedroom, reading a book about a boy whose brother went missing, and the town had searched for a dead bird instead. He’d turned a page when his heart seemed to stop beating.

Fear pinned him to where he sat. Adrenaline made him leap up, and his feet had led him down the stairs and tearing out the back door to the woods. He halted when he realised he wasn’t sure of where to go, and that to anyone watching he would look like a madman, standing amongst the trees and breathing heavily.

Then he heard a sob, and followed the sound to where Gabriel, just four, was cradling their brother’s head.

“He was just showing me how to climb the trees!” Gabriel had sobbed as Michael knelt beside them, unable to take his eyes from Lucifer’s pale face, unmoving body. _He’s dead,_ he had thought, and fear really did pin him down then. He had been unable to move and barely able to breathe as he whispered for Gabriel to get their father, quick. He’d pressed shaking fingers to his warm neck, and had bowed his head and whispered thanks to god when he felt a pulse.

“No more climbing trees,” Michael had told him semi-sternly when they were next alone, Lucifer touching the stitches thoughtfully as they sat cross-legged on his bed. Lucifer had rolled his eyes at him.

He hadn’t rolled his eyes when Michael had told him about the way his heart had almost stopped, the way his feet had known where to run before his head did.

“Maybe you heard my scream,” he suggested, but Michael had shaken his head. There was no way the scream would have carried to his bedroom.

“Well,” Lucifer said after a while, and closed his hand around Michael’s in the way they had seen two unknowing twins do in a play they’d been to see the week before. Lucifer had wanted to do as they had, and make a cut on their hands and press them together so they could be blood brothers. Michael had pointed out that they already were. “Of course you knew. You always know.”

And because Lucifer never lied, Michael thought it was true. It didn’t even occur to him that it was only true because Lucifer thought it was, because Michael _did_ always seem to know.

But, obviously, things changed. Things changed a lot.

It was seven years now since Michael had been able to ignore his brother’s pleas and had pushed him out the house.

It was three since he’d broken his heart with one word.

And now. Now, now, now.

They hadn’t exchanged a word since that day. No texts, no calls, no turning up at midnight on the doorstep out the blue. Nothing. He couldn’t speak for Raphael and Gabriel, but for him, nothing.

He supposed it was stupid to presume that the connection they had once had would withstand three years. Because he’d felt nothing, nothing, nothing. No phantom pains, no drops in his stomach, nothing for so long. So he wasn’t sure why he was surprised that he’d felt surprised at feeling nothing, having no warning, for this.

He’d been in a meeting when there had been a small knock at the door. He’d carried on, because it had been his turn speaking, and this meeting could be the difference of several million dollars for the business. The knock had sounded again, this time more urgent, and the CEO of the company- a squat little middle-aged man with greying hair and neatly manicured nails- sighed and called for them to enter.

The receptionist, all sleek hair and sleek nails, had hovered in the doorway despite the well-manicured hand beckoning her to whisper the message in the man’s ear.

“Mr Shurley?” she’d said, looking at the card and up again, looking at the faces around the table. “There’s a doctor on the phone.”

“Can it wait?” Michael had asked, feeling the eyes in the room swivel to him. He knew by now that being relatively young in the world of business meant he had to be both ‘fresh blood’ and show the upmost respect at all times by not doing things his elders wouldn’t. One of these things was obviously leaving a meeting to take a call.

But the receptionist had shook her head. After an apology to the table he’d stood to follow her.

Thirty-four minutes later, the CEO had come up to where he was standing, staring without looking at the outdoors through the wall of glass that the spiral staircase looked over. The receptionist had pressed a plastic cup of icy water into his hands twenty-eight minutes before. It was room temperature now, untouched in the cup. 

The man clapped him on the shoulder and put his hands in his pockets as he looked out, too. Probably wanted to appear casual.

“You didn’t come back,” he said, as if it had slipped Michael’s attention that he’d left without returning to what would probably be the most important meeting of his life. His tone was light, but Michael could hear the resentment behind it that he heard from all business partners when they took in his grey-free dark hair, his lineless face. He could hear the words he really wanted to say- _you young little fool, too lazy to make it through one meeting without jumping up at the first opportunity to leave._ “I hope everything’s alright.”

Michael didn’t respond to that for a while. Just stared down into the white Styrofoam.

“It’s not,” he said eventually. The man’s eyes flickered to him, but Michael didn’t look at him. More silence, and the man opened his mouth to say something, but Michael didn’t want to hear it. He said it anyway.

“I’m sor-”

“My brother’s dead.”

He was sent home after that. The man sent him in his own Rolls Royce, driven by a chauffeur, obviously. He’d thanked the chauffeur tonelessly and gotten out.

Gabriel was still at school. He’d be home in an hour or two. Raphael was at college.

Michael took his tie off as he walked to the kitchen, stepping outside and dropping it as he went, ignoring the questions of the maid behind him as he strode to the woods.

His suit jacket was dropped. His watch landed in the dirt. His shoes were taken off as he walked, and thrown to the side.

When he reached a small stream that cut through the woods he knelt down unceremoniously. He plunged his face into the water, hands gripping at slippery rocks. He screamed until his lungs burned.

The maid had led him back to the house when she’d found him, and he’d followed her simply because of the desperation in her voice when she’d tugged him out from the thirteenth round of screaming into the water. A small part of him made a note to raise her pay as she sat him in the living room with a blanket draped across his shoulders like a cape, a towel placed over his wet hair. She’d pressed a mug of hot, sweet tea into his hands.

 It was still untouched by the time Gabriel was home, too loud and too happy in the deathly silence of the house. He’d fell just as silent when he saw Michael.

Michael stood, slowly, steeling himself. He had to be strong. Gabriel was eighteen, Gabriel was young, and this was Michael’s cross to bear. Had to be the good soldier, the good son to a dead father.

Gabriel had watched fearfully, silently, as Michael opened his mouth. It should be okay. Not too hard. _I got a call today, Gabriel. Lucifer_ -

He burst into tears instead, sitting back down on the sofa and lying on his side, curling up and pressing his face into the blanket so he could _howl_. He didn’t stop when he felt the hand on his shoulder, nor when Gabriel’s voice, getting tearful in empathy, asked him what was going on. It was only when his shoulder was shaken more forcefully and he was asked for the third time he could get his mouth to co-operate with his brain.

Gabriel had remained silent for a moment as he watched his oldest brother, all his walls and careful management of his presentation gone, crying in the way a child would in their living room. He’d watched his older brother lift his face from the blanket, and it was red and tear-stained. He’d watched his older brother scream out the name of Lucifer between sobs over and over and over, voice raw and pained, and it had taken Gabriel several seconds to realise this wasn’t a delayed reaction to the absence of Lucifer. He didn’t need the clarification, either. He just buried his head into his brother’s shoulder, shaking like a leaf as Michael’s screams fell back into sobs, broken whispers of their brother’s name between drags of breath and tears.

Raphael had cried, too. Joshua had been the one to phone him. Unlike his father’s funeral, Michael didn’t take on all the responsibility that was there. He wanted as little part in this as he could.

Seeing as there was no will, no recordings of any wishes of what Lucifer wanted to happen to his body, his possessions, that had been one thing that Michael _did_ have to decide, being his next of kin. He had hoped that his brother would find happiness, wherever he was, and had found someone who would have been the one to choose his final resting place. But no.

He had chosen for Lucifer to be buried in the chapel’s graveyard.

A stupid, stupid idea, as he discovered. It meant that it would make the most sense for the wake to be held in the house. The second time Lucifer had entered the house in seven years, and it was in a coffin.

Michael had seen a dead body three times before. The first time had been when he was six, and it had been the body of a distant uncle. Other than looking slightly waxy, he’d looked pretty much the same as he did in the photographs his father had shown them before driving them to the funeral house.

The second had been his mother’s two years later, also in a funeral house. She’d looked just as she had when she had been alive, no waxiness. He’d held Lucifer’s hand in his, and for once, their father said nothing. Little Raphael, five and unafraid, had reached into the coffin to hold her in a light hug. Lucifer had followed, leaning in to place a kiss on her cheek, and had stepped back with his lip trembling and his small hand seeking Michael’s warm one again. His father did the same as Lucifer, holding Gabriel tightly on his hip to stop him from squirming towards her. That left Michael. He hadn’t wanted to. He really hadn’t wanted to. He didn’t want to see if her skin was ice-cold and tasted of ashes, like he imagined it would. But he didn’t want to be the only one of the three brothers who would remember that day to not have a memory of a final goodbye. So he let go of Lucifer’s hand and stepped up to the coffin, placing a small kiss on her forehead. It had been cool, but not cold, and some of her golden curls had brushed his cheek. They had still felt soft.

The third had been his father’s. The wake had been closed casket, but Michael had been the person who’d taken the steps three at a time when the maid had screamed, and had been the one to stare down at the body for several seconds longer than necessary with his mouth hanging open.

Lucifer was sent to the embalmers, because Joshua had opted for an open casketed wake. He’d explained to Michael the reasons he thought it the best decision. Michael hadn’t been able to concentrate on his voice, his blood pounding loudly in his head the second he’d heard the words ‘open casket.’ He didn’t want to face his brother. He didn’t want to look down at the body he’d put there.

He was sent a copy of the autopsy report. Gabriel had asked to read it. Michael had refused. He was too young, he was eighteen, he was too young, he could have been a hundred and eighteen and it still would have been too young to deal with the weight on his shoulders.

He’d read it, page by page, wanting to know what to expect. There was only so much make-up could do to conceal the marks of death, after all. Even if Joshua had poured money into the funeral parlour to make the body look as life-like as possible.

It had his description, and Michael began to hope. It sounded like Lucifer, yes, but there were plenty of people who were male, with blond hair and blue eyed, tall of stature and thin. If he thought about it, Lucifer was thin, relatively, but not thin enough for it to be recorded in the short paragraph. But then it had given his weight, and Michael’s face had slipped into a frown. There was no way Lucifer could weigh that. It was the border between underweight and dangerously underweight, and that wasn’t what Lucifer was. He skimmed the weights of his organs, not wanting to picture someone taking his brother apart like that.

It recorded small dots on the inside of his elbow. That hadn’t made sense to Michael. None at all, until he carried on.

Drowned. That was the overall cause of death. It wasn’t as simple as that, though. Levels of diacetylmorphine in his blood. Indications on the body suggesting he was a regular user. He’d taken some before his death, more than an hour before and less than three hours. A witness had confirmed this. So did what they found on the beach, not far from where the witness had watched him from a distance, the only other person on the beach- watched as he had sat peacefully, tracing circles into the sand before standing. They found evidence of a small fire, a burnt spoon and belt next to the ashes, an empty needle and small baggie near them. These were the only things they had found offshore, other than the wallet and the gold cross on a chain.

His wallet hadn’t been for the money it had in it, which Michael imagined wasn’t a lot. It was for the ID in there and the slip of paper that told them who to call when they found him. That had been sent to him. _‘Michael Shurley, brother, 25’_ Lucifer had written, followed by the house number. The maid, he found out, had given the number of the building he was in when she had picked up the ringing phone.

He read everything. He read the witness’ report, too. It told him of a thin man who had sat on the sand, and the witness had watched him for some time, wondering if he was going to stay there long enough to be able to include in the ‘Beach on a Cloudy Day’ landscape he was painting.

 Lucifer had, and had sat there for way longer than the time needed for the witness to paint the navy of his jeans, the dark brown of his leather jacket, the pale blond of his hair. They’d even had time to add the small glint of gold he was holding- the cross and chain, Michael knew. The witness wrote that he ran it through his fingers as he traced the circles into the sand absently. They added the orange-red of the small fire he had lit, and they were too far away to see why he’d lit it. Then they had resumed painting the sand, the sea with colour so deep it was almost black, the paler grey of the sky.

 Michael knew all this because they had sent it to him along with a letter expressing their sorrow for the family. They probably thought it would be the payment for the fact they had been the one too afraid to follow him into the water. Or maybe the payment for the story of _why._ Which it was, Michael would never know, because he simply sent a letter back thanking them for the gift and the letter, and had sat staring at it for almost an hour before wrapping it in a sheet and putting it under his bed.

The painter-witness hadn’t realised what was happening when Lucifer stood, leaving the wallet and the chain behind. He’d went to the rock pools, and the painter had continued from his look-out point of the gently-sloped cliff, thinking the young man had wanted to inspect the fish there. He hadn’t seen him line his shoes with rocks, but he did watch him as he picked up more rocks to fill his jean and jacket pockets. Not knowing what to think, he’d continued with painting.

Then Lucifer had waded into the water, and the painter took too long to put it together.

By the time he’d ran down the cliff, Lucifer was submerged and no longer visible. He called the coast guards. When they arrived and found the place his body had sunk to, they called the ambulance. And the hospital had called Michael.

Michael had thought that his brother had left their father’s funeral reception with anger in his heart. He thought that would melt away. He thought his brother had found a happiness so deep and true that he didn’t want to share it with the brother who had broken his heart when it had so needed to be looked after tenderly. He had thought that, maybe, one day, when they were older and Raphael and Gabriel had left for their own lives long ago, leaving Michael to grow old playing the part his father had left behind, Lucifer would come to the door with a family and a healed heart and seeking to repair the friendship they had once had. And that it would be different ( _because nothing could ever be the same, really),_ but it would be real.

So no. Michael hadn’t thought that it would end the way it did.

He didn’t want the wake, nor the funeral, to be like his father’s had been- filled with people he had barely known in life, one last opportunity to be a businessman. He’d told this to Joshua, who had agreed. It couldn’t just be the three brothers that remained and Joshua, though, so more relatives were invited. They milled around him, some offering a pat on the shoulder or a word of condolence. Michael no longer had tears to cry, so he just stood, glass held tightly in his hand as he stood alone.

He didn’t want to see the body. It was in the next room, and his remaining brothers had been to see it already. Gabriel, who hadn’t shed a tear since he’d found out, told him tonelessly that he should give him one last goodbye. Michael didn’t respond. Just held the glass in one hand, the gold cross in the other. It had been sent with his wallet, and they had been followed with a moving van containing all of Lucifer’s possessions from his apartment, including the jacket. Michael had told Gabriel and Raphael, who had left for home the day he had heard, to take what they wanted from the boxes. He’d instructed the men driving the van to put the rest of the things into the garage. He’d sort through it all another day. One day. Not anytime soon.

He had considered having Lucifer buried in the cross. But he had taken it off before he had died, and Michael had to respect that, even if it was just another heavy weight that sunk his heart further and further down. He would carry it with him until his dying day, like Lucifer, but he would make it known in his will that he would be buried wearing both the silver and the gold.

The people began to leave the house. They would head down to the chapel, and the pallbearers- hired, like at his father’s funeral, simply because Michael didn’t trust himself not to fall under the weight- would come into the house and walk with the coffin on their shoulders to deliver it to the chapel. The priest would do the funeral. His brother would be buried. The first to be buried in that plot. Michael didn’t doubt that he would be the next to follow.

The pallbearers asked him if he wanted to say a few last words to his brother when he was the last one remaining in the house. He had stared at them blankly, and then gave a slow nod, heading into the living room and closing the door so it was just the two of them.

His brother looked like he was still alive. His eyes were closed and his arms crossed over his chest, asking for one last blessing. Michael stepped closer silently, half fearing and half hoping he’d sit up and scream ‘boo!’

He didn’t. He was dead.

It was a lie, Michael knew, as he stood over the dark coffin, looking at his brother and laying his warm hand softly over Lucifer’s room temperature one. Only one person had drowned on the day his brother had died, and it hadn’t been Lucifer. It had been Michael, and he had drowned in Lucifer’s eyes. He had drowned, but he had found a way to breathe.

Lucifer had died when Michael turned his words into a sword and pushed it through his heart. He hadn’t died in the leather jacket, the shirt, the jeans. His lips hadn’t been blue and his eyes hadn’t been closed. He had died in a charcoal suit with messed-up hair. Michael had been the one in the jacket. His lips had been red and his eyes had been open, almost black with blown-up pupil.

He wanted to peel past the glue holding his eyes shut. Wanted to look into his sunken eyes and drown once more, this time without a way to breathe, a way to live. Wanted his last thoughts to be of Lucifer, unquestionably of Lucifer, back when Lucifer was still Lucifer; running ahead of him, his hair illuminated by the sun and made into an eternal halo, glancing back to Michael, but never reaching to pull him along- trusting him to catch up instead.

He wanted to be buried in the same coffin, because Christ, what had happened to his brother to make him so thin to leave as much room as there was? And they would be buried together as they had grown together, become a tangled mess of bones. And the bones would become dust,

_Stones._

they would become dust,

_Stones and dust._

and the dust would be a mix of Michael-and-Lucifer, impossible to separate into Michael and Lucifer, the different people they had become. They would finish the world in the way they should have- together, indistinguishable, inseparable.

He stared down at his brother,

_Next to Lucifer he became the creator,_

the brother he had once known, truly known, though knowing Lucifer was impossible,

_the observer,_

the brother who had been forced to become someone else to survive.

_the destroyer._

Michael, in turn, had done the same. He wasn’t sure if his brother could love him the way he had, if he knew who Michael was now. Because things had changed, to put it mildly.

 _“How does something like that just_ end _, though? I mean, something so big and so powerful… how did no one manage to stop it from falling?”_

One of his second cousins, who had found him in Brown and had been two years older than him, had given him copious amounts of wine as they sat together and talked. First about the family they shared. As the night progressed, it was about more than just that. The mood had become sombre, as did the music playing softly from her phone. She had told him between drags of a cigarette they had shared (Michael slightly reluctantly, because he couldn’t smell cigarette smoke without thinking of Lucifer) that to truly love someone was to give them the power to destroy you.

_“It didn’t just fall overnight, Michael.”_

Well.

He laid a hand across his brother’s closed eyes. Bowed his head.

Breathed.

Lived.

Michael stared into the eyes the photograph on top of the coffin throughout the mass. He found that the eyes didn’t drown him. Maybe because he was sixteen in the photograph, smile large and his eyes crinkled because of it.

So he drowned in other ways instead.

He drowned in the phantom smell of cigarettes and leather, red lips and messed hair.

He drowned in the memories of shared smirks during sermons, the sight of their scratched initials in the pew, the smell of incense on Raphael’s hands as he came up to where they had used to wait after each mass for him, and even their father would smile at Lucifer’s commentary of the mass, the mockeries of the new priest’s cartoonish voice.

He drowned in the memory of the cut grass Lucifer had stuffed down his neck behind the chapel. Gabriel’s tenth birthday, and Michael had laughed so hard his stomach had hurt when Lucifer slipped on the grass when he tried to run away, seeing Michael grab a handful of grass in response.

He drowned in the memory of the hot spring when he had been fourteen and they had both discovered that Michael’s ‘friends’ and Lucifer’s ‘friends’ didn’t like each other too much- and Lucifer had responded to this knowledge by finding Michael whenever he was with his friends, wrapping an arm around him and using Michael’s school tie to wipe at the sweat on his forehead, his smile made true by his delight in seeing the narrowed eyes of Michael’s ‘friends.’

He drowned in the memory of believing in absolution. Of not having enough sins to confess, because now he avoided confession because he had too many, and he knew he didn’t deserve having them wiped away. His last confession, his last true absolution, had been the week before he had found his father's body. He knew it would remain that way, stay that way until he drew his final breath and would probably use it to beg for the lifetime-minus-twenty-one-years worth of sins. He knew he probably would, because if nothing else, he was a failure to other people's expectations as much as his own.

He drowned in the memory of playing War in elementary school. Of them both being on separate sides of the playground (there wasn’t much else to do in the small school, so nearly everyone would join in), and they would find each other each time, their ‘war faces’ melting away into laughs at the same time as they joined hands, their father not there to tell them not to.

He drowned in the memory of being young enough to think that the ‘Right Thing’ to do was always the _right thing to do,_ and of thinking that a brother’s love was a pure, simple thing, something that wasn’t messy and confusing and made him want to cry at night- because he hadn’t felt it in the same way, and he hadn’t had enough love in his heart to pretend he had, pretend he had so he could keep Lucifer with him, keep Lucifer safe. He drowned in the memory of believing he would know when Lucifer needed him. But his brother had died halfway across the country, and Michael had needed to be told that to know.

He drowned in the sight of the coffin being lowered.

He drowned in the feeling of dirt in his palm.

He drowned in the realisation that they would be buried in separate coffins, and their dust would probably never touch.

He drowned. He drowned. He drowned.

He lived.

Gabriel might not, though. He realised it when he looked across the room at his youngest brother. He was standing alone with a blank expression, a glass of cola in his hand that was too pale to not have anything else in it.

_Take better fucking care of him._

The torture of the reception ended, and the day with it. The last three guests left the remaining brothers at a quarter to midnight. Raphael headed up the stairs immediately, and how Michael wanted to follow him, collapse into his bed and deal with it another day.

But the brother he had buried proved that there could be seven years’ worth of days, and if he didn’t put the time he had to good use, none of them would make a damn bit of difference.

He stopped Gabriel at the foot of the stairs. “Gabriel,” he said, and that was all his brother needed to come undone. He was howling against his chest, fingers scrabbling at his neck to bring him closer so he could cry into his shoulder instead. Gabriel crashed to his knees, his legs too weak to hold him any longer. Michael went with him, holding him silently as Gabriel wept, barely drawing breath as he clung to Michael’s neck and refused to let go.

An hour later, and asleep or just too tired to carry on, Michael wasn’t sure. Gabriel was silent, limp against him, hands still around his neck. With a lot more effort required than when he was eighteen and Gabriel eleven, he picked his little brother up, and struggled up the stairs with him in his arms.

He laid him down as gently as he could (because he _was_ asleep, as it turned out), kissed his forehead, and left.

_He’s gone, then?_

Michael walked back to his room.

_Yes._

He began to undress, and felt something cold on his stomach as he unbuttoned his shirt. His neck felt oddly bare.

_For now._

It was trapped where his shirt was tucked into his pants. Michael blinked, and lifted it, putting it in his palm.

Gabriel had snapped the chain.

A mistake, he realised as his heart began to sink. Just like when he’d been a baby and had broken the first gold chain. He hadn’t wanted to let go of Michael then, either.

But this had been Lucifer’s. Michael’s grip tightened on it until it felt like the links of the chain would be forever imprinted in his skin. This had been a gift from their mother, and then a gift from Lucifer.

He trudged to the drawers and put his closed hands on them, bowing his head. It wouldn’t be fair to blame Gabriel. It wouldn’t be fair, but he could feel himself beginning to do it anyway.

He could also almost feel cold hands wrap around him from behind in a hug, short hair tickling his neck as a cheek rested on his shoulder.

_You can’t blame him, Michael._

But he needed to do _something._ He’d done nothing for seven years other than break his brother with his words. He needed to do something, needed to have someone to blame for this last breaking of what connected him and Lucifer.

_Everything ends, anyway._

But they _shouldn’t have been able to end._ There should have been a warning when his father shouted for him to pack a bag, when he told him to make Lucifer leave. Someone should have been there to tell him to do as Lucifer said and refuse, to open the door when Lucifer sat for so long outside, knocking and whispering to be let in. He’d had chances, had a million chances, had as many chances as there were seconds in seven years. He could have let Lucifer in, he could have drove to the bus station the second Gabriel had said he was there, could have shaken his location out of Joshua, or Gabriel. He could have pretended to love Lucifer in the way Lucifer loved him, and he could have tracked him down at any point in the three years following the kiss and opened the door to his apartment, and cradle his brother in his arms as he lay amongst the drugs he took to feel alive. Or maybe he took them to not feel anything at all. Michael would never really know.

_There’s nothing in this world that can’t fall the way Rome did,_

He should have known not to let his heart grow so apart from Lucifer’s. Should have let it lead him to the beach like it had led him to the forest when he had been eleven. Should have waded in like the painter was too scared to, closed his arms around his sinking brother’s chest and pull him up before his heart stopped beating and hug him close and tell him that just because he didn’t love him the same way didn’t mean he didn’t love him more than his heart could bear.

_so stop looking for someone to blame._

But he hadn’t known. He had had the chances, chances upon chances upon chances, and he had taken none of them.

_Go to sleep._

Michael collapsed back into the bed, silver chain in hand. He set it on the bedside table, and dug into his pockets to find the one Lucifer had taken off before he died. He set that beside it.

He could do as his father hadn’t. Keep his other two brothers alive at all costs.

Get the silver chain fixed in the jeweller’s shop, where the light shone through the crystals.

He took his phone out from his pocket. He still had all the texts he and Lucifer had sent to each other in the lead-up to their father’s funeral.

He sent one last one-

_I love you. I’m sorry._

-and let the phone fall through his fingers to the floor.

He went to sleep.

 

 


End file.
